"Her soul is up there, where the stars and the angels are, grandfather says.

But what is that to me?
I am here--am I not?
I talk to her just the same.

Everything I see I point out, and tell her everything.

In the daytime--in the woods, when we are together.

And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my breast--so, and say: 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let us go to sleep together.' Sometimes I say: 'Oh, why will you never answer me when I speak and speak ?' Mother--mother--mother!" At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk, and at the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.
"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear you! Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer." But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart, letting me see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its fancies so childlike and feelings so intense--had fallen again; and my words brought no response, except a return of that troubled look to her face.
"Silent still ?" I said.