"Now confess, mother, that you won't find sweeter flowers even in heaven."
And when the thrush is on the apple bough outside the window, Margaret will sometimes employ the same gentle raillery.
"Do you think, mother," she will say, "that an angel could sing sweeter than that thrush?"
"You seem very sure, Margaret, that I am going to heaven," the old mother will sometimes say, with one of her arch old smiles; "but do you know that I stole two peppermints yesterday?"
"You did!" says Margaret.
"I did indeed! and they have been on my conscience ever since."
"Really, mother! I don't know what to say," answers Margaret. "I had no idea that you are so wicked."
Many such little games the two play together, as the days go by; and often at bedtime, as Margaret tucks her mother into bed, she asks her:
"Are you comfortable, dear? Do you really think you would be much more comfortable in heaven?"