Mamma was different.
You knew when she loved you. You could almost count the times: the time when Papa frightened you; the time when you cut your forehead; the time the lamb died; all the whooping-cough and chicken-pox times, and when Meta, the wax doll, fell off the schoolroom table and broke her head; and when Mark went away to school. Or when you were good and said every word of your lessons right; when you watched Mamma working in the garden, planting and transplanting the flowers with her clever hands; and when you were quiet and sat beside her on the footstool, learning to knit and sew. On Sunday afternoons when she played the hymns and you sang:
"There's a Friend for little children
Above the bright blue sky,"
quite horribly out of tune, and when you listened while she sang herself, "Lead, kindly light," or "Abide with me," and her voice was so sweet and gentle that it made you cry. Then you knew.
Sometimes, when it was not Sunday, she played the Hungarian March, that went, with loud, noble noises:
Droom—Droom—Droom-era-room
Droom—Droom—Droom-era-room
Droom rer-room-room droom-room-room
Droom—Droom—Droom.
It was wonderful. Mamma was wonderful. She swayed and bowed to the beat of the music, as if she shook it out of her body and not out of the piano. She smiled to herself when she saw that you were listening. You said "Oh—Mamma! Play it again," and she played it again. When she had finished she stooped suddenly and kissed you. And you knew.
But she wouldn't say it. You couldn't make her.
"Say it, Mamma. Say it like you used to."
Mamma shook her head.