And it was not then; her hand became cooler, her breathing more easy; she smiled to us.

Once more I could work by snatches, and was glad, but what was the result to me compared to the joy of hearing that voice from the other room?
There lay all the work I was ever proud of, the rest is but honest craftsmanship done to give her coal and food and softer pillows.

My thousand letters that she so carefully preserved, always sleeping with the last beneath the sheet, where one was found when she died--they are the only writing of mine of which I shall ever boast.

I would not there had been one less though I could have written an immortal book for it.
How my sister toiled--to prevent a stranger's getting any footing in the house! And how, with the same object, my mother strove to 'do for herself' once more.

She pretended that she was always well now, and concealed her ailments so craftily that we had to probe for them:-- 'I think you are not feeling well to-day ?' 'I am perfectly well.' 'Where is the pain ?' 'I have no pain to speak of.' 'Is it at your heart ?' 'No.' 'Is your breathing hurting you ?' 'Not it.' 'Do you feel those stounds in your head again ?' 'No, no, I tell you there is nothing the matter with me.' 'Have you a pain in your side ?' 'Really, it's most provoking I canna put my hand to my side without your thinking I have a pain there.' 'You have a pain in your side!' 'I might have a pain in my side.' 'And you were trying to hide it! Is it very painful ?' 'It's--it's no so bad but what I can bear it.' Which of these two gave in first I cannot tell, though to me fell the duty of persuading them, for whichever she was she rebelled as soon as the other showed signs of yielding, so that sometimes I had two converts in the week but never both on the same day.