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102 pillow; her daughters saw her delicate body heave with sobs. Mary and Jane exchanged looks of distress.

“I think I can understand how hard it is, mother,” Jane said, timidly kneeling beside the bed and touching one slender shoulder. “But maybe your voice will come back. Everything grows in our lovely garden! And we mean to take such care of you! Won’t you get used to us, and think it isn’t so very bad not to hear applause, when your three girls are admiring you as hard as they can?” she whispered.

“And how would you like to get up this one morning and come out with us, just to see the garden with the dew on it, and hear the birds?” Mary pleaded, following Jane and stroking her mother’s hair with the hand that had been endowed with beauty and a healing touch. “I think it would make you feel as though nothing on earth mattered—for a while, at least. And you should have coffee out there, and rolls, or tea, if that’s what you like better. You’d love to be the birds’ audience this time, little clever mother.”

Mrs. Garden turned and looked up at them with a quick movement and a laugh, though tears wet her cheeks; it was like one of Jane’s swift changes.