Her lips moved, and I was sure she said "Thank God!"
Then she answered gently—
"It is spring, my Vevette; the last of March."
"March!" I repeated wonderingly. "I thought it had been December. And what, then, has become of Christmas?"
"It has gone where all other Christmases have gone before it, no doubt," answered my mother, smiling. "It passed while you were so ill that I dared not leave you for a moment, and all the congregation on that day prayed for you. Do you not recollect anything of your illness?"
"No," I answered. "The last I recollect clearly was being in church listening to the sermon, and then waking in my room and hearing some one say I was better. But that was some days ago, was it not?"
"Some weeks," said my mother. "But do not talk any more now. Here comes our good Eleanor, with your breakfast. The dear child has been like an own daughter to me."
"I remember Eleanor," said I, taking her plump hand in my thin one and kissing it. "She has been here a good many times. But what are these flowers? Violets? They really are violets and primroses."
"I thought you would like them," said Eleanor; "but don't let your broth get cold while you look at them."
And she would have fed me, but I took the spoon and helped myself.