. .
At first she was no more than a blue-clad, white-aproned benevolence, that move dint he shadows behind the bed on which my old mother lay and sank restfully to death. She would come forward to anticipate some need, to proffer some simple comfort, and always then my mother smiled on her. In a little while I discovered the beauty of that helpful poise of her woman's body. I discovered the grace of untiring goodness, the sweetness of a tender pity, and the great riches of her voice, of her few reassuring words and phrases. I noted and remembered very clearly how once my mother's lean old hand patted the firm gold-flecked strength of hers, as it went by upon its duties with the coverlet.
"She is a good girl to me," said my mother one day. "A good girl. Like a daughter should be. . . . I never had a daughter--really." She mused peacefully for a space. "Your little sister died," she said.
I had never heard of that little sister.
"November the tenth," said my mother. "Twenty-nine months and three days. . . . I cried. I cried. That was before you came, dear. So long ago--and I can see it now. I was a young wife then, and your father was very kind. But I can see its hands, its dear little quiet hands. . . . Dear, they say, that now--now they will not let the little children die."
