'No, dear child; you are not strong enough yet.'
'I wish I could grow into a strong man in a night,' I thought.
My mother came to the bedside and rested her fingers upon my neck. What tenderness dwells in a loving mother's touch! I imprisoned her fingers in mine. She leant towards me caressingly and kissed me. Sleep stole upon me in that kiss of love.
I saw a picture in a shop window of a girl whose bright fresh face brought my mother's face before me. But the girl's face was full of gladness, and her cheeks were glowing; my mother's cheeks were sunken and wan. Still the likeness was unmistakably there, and I thought how much I should love to see my mother as bright as this bright girl. I spoke to her about it, and she went to see the picture, which was in the next street to ours. She came back smiling.
'It is like me, Chris,' she said; 'as I was once.'
'Then you must have been very, very pretty,' I said, stroking her cheek.
My mother laughed melodiously.
'When I was young, my dear,' she said with innocent vanity, blushing like a girl, 'I was thought not to be ugly.'
'Ugly, indeed!' I exclaimed, looking around defiantly. 'My mother couldn't be ugly!'
'What do you call me now, Chris?'