My Mothers Rival | Page 7

brother, but he only lived one hour. Now he is dead, and mamma is
very dangerously ill. Tho doctors say that unless she has most perfect
rest she will not get better--there must not be a sound in the house."
A little brother! At first my child's mind was so filled with wonder I
could not realize what it meant. How often I had longed for brothers
and sisters! Now I had had one, and he was dead before I could see
him.
"I should like to see my little brother, papa--if I may," I said.

He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes, then answered:
"I am quite sure you may, Laura; I will take you."
We went, without making even the faintest sound, to the pretty rooms
that had been set aside as nurseries. One of them had been beautifully
decorated with white lace and flowers. There in the midst stood the
berceaunette in which I had lain when I was a child.
My father took me up to it--at first I saw only the flowers, pale
snowdrops and blue violets with green leaves; then I saw a sweet
waxen face with closed eyes and lips.
Oh! baby brother, how often I have longed to be at rest with you! I was
not frightened; the beautiful, tiny face, now still in death, had no
horrors for me.
"May I kiss him, papa?" I asked. Oh, baby brother, why not have stayed
with us for a few hours at least? I should like to have seen his pretty
eyes and to have seen him just once with him lips parted; as it was, they
were closed in the sweet, silent smile of death.
"Papa, what name should you have given him had he lived?" I asked.
"Your mother's favorite name--Gerald," he replied. "Ah, Laura, had he
lived, poor little fellow, he would have been 'Sir Gerald Tayne, of
Tayne Abbey.' How much dies in a child--who knows what manner of
man this child might have been or what he might have done?"
"Papa, what is the use of such a tiny life?" I asked.
"Not even a philosopher could answer that question," said my father.
I kissed the sweet, baby face again and again. "Good-by, my little
brother," I said. Ah! where shall I see his face again?

CHAPTER IV.

My mother was in danger and my baby brother dead. The gloom that
lay over our house was something never to be forgotten; the silence that
was never broken by one laugh or one cheerful word, the scared
faces--for every one loved "my lady." One fine morning, when the
snowdrops had grown more plentiful, and there was a faint sign of the
coming spring in the air, they took my baby brother to bury him. Such a
tiny coffin, such tiny white wreaths, a little white pall covered with
flowers. My father would not let black come near him.
My father wept bitter tears.
"There sleeps my little son and heir, Laura," he said to me--"my little
boy. It is as though he had just peeped out of Heaven at this world, and,
not liking it, had gone back again."
A pretty little white monument was put up to the baby Gerald. My
mother chose the epitaph, which I had always thought so pretty. It was
simply this--"The angels gather such lilies for God."
By degrees some little sunshine stole back, the dreadful silence
lessened, the servants began to walk about without list slippers, the
birds were carried back to the beautiful aviary--my mother's favorite
nook; the doctors smiled as they came down the grand staircase. I heard
Sir Roland whistling and singing as he had done weeks ago.
At last I was admitted to see her. One fine March morning, when the
wind was blowing freshly and tossing the big, bare branches, I was
taken to her room. I should not have known her; a pale, languid lady
lay there in the place of my laughing, beautiful mother; two large blue
eyes full of tears looked at me; two thin, white arms clasped me, and
then I was lying on my mother's heart. Oh, my darling, if we could
have died then.
"My little Laura, I was afraid I should never see you again," whispered
a faint voice.
Ah, me, the ecstasy of the next half-hour! I sat close by her side and
told her how the snowdrops were growing and the purple and golden

crocuses made the garden seem quite gay. I told her where I had found
the first violets, some of which I had brought to her. I cannot tell what
it was like to me to feel my mother's hand on my head once more.
Then came a brief time of happiness. My mother improved a little,