Winifred’s little face smiled all over, a slow smile of satisfaction, although she never turned her head until her mother had seated herself in the great rocking-chair that stood beside the window. Then she left her seat and crept into her mother’s arms, laying her head against that comfortable shoulder, and looking alternately out of the window and into her mother’s face.
“What was my darling doing all alone? What was my little girl thinking of?”
“I was watching the swallows, mamma dear.”
“You are fond of the swallows, Winnie.”
“Yes; so many of them are my swallows—and soon they will go away.”
“Yes, darling.”
“Mamma,” asked the child, with a serious, wistful look in her eyes, “how is it that the things we love best and care most for always seem to go away soonest?”
It seemed to Winifred that the warm, loving arms closed more tenderly and closely round her as the mother answered gently:
“Does it seem so to you, darling?”
“Yes, mamma. It was my favourite rose-tree that died last winter, and my favourite oak-tree that was blown down in the storm. Ronald lost his best puppy, and papa’s favourite horse went lame. I like all the birds very much, but the swallows much, much the best, and it is the swallows who go, and the robins and chaffinches that stay behind. I wonder why it is.”