It could not be thus with Henrietta, bent on seeing no illness, on marking no traces of danger; shutting her eyes to all the tokens that her mother was not to be bound down to earth for ever.  She found her always cheerful, ready to take interest in all that pleased her, and still with the playfulness which never failed to light up all that approached her.  A flower,—­what pleasure it gave her! and how sweet her smile would be!

It was on the evening of the day after the physician’s visit, that Henrietta came in talking, with the purpose of, as she fancied, cheering her mother’s spirits, of some double lilac primroses which Mrs. Langford had promised her for the garden at the Pleasance.  Her mamma smelt the flowers, admired them, and smiled as she said, “Your papa planted a root of those in my little garden the first summer I was here.”

“Then I am sure you will like to have them at the Pleasance, mamma.”

“My dear child,”—­she paused, while Henrietta started, and gazed upon her, frightened at the manner—­“you must not build upon our favourite old plan; you must prepare—­”

“O but, mamma, you are better!  You are so much better than two days ago; and these clear days do you so much good; and it is all so bright.”

“Thanks to Him Who has made it bright!” said her mother, taking her hand.  “But I fear, my own dearest, that it will seem far otherwise to you.  I want you to make up your mind—­”

Henrietta broke vehemently upon the feeble accents.  “Mamma! mamma! you must not speak so!  It is the worst thing people can do to think despondingly of themselves.  Aunt Geoffrey, do tell her so!”

“Despondingly! my child; you little know what the thought is to me!”

The words were almost whispered, and Henrietta scarcely marked them.

“No, no, you must not!  It is too cruel to me,—­I can’t bear it!” she cried; the tears in her eyes, and a violence of agitation about her, which her mother, feeble as she was, could not attempt to contend with.  She rested her head on her cushions, and silently and mournfully followed with her eyes the hasty trembling movements of her daughter, who continued to arrange the things on the table, and make desperate attempts to regain her composure; but completely failing, caught up her bonnet, and hurried out of the room.

“Poor dear child,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, “I wish she was more prepared.  Beatrice, the comforting her is the dearest and saddest task I leave you.  Fred, poor fellow, is prepared, and will bear up like a man; but it will come fearfully upon her.  And Henrietta and I have been more like sisters than mother and daughter.  If she would only bear to hear me—­but no, if I were to be overcome while speaking to her, it might give her pain in the recollection.  Beatrice, you must tell her all I would say.”

“If I could!”