I thought it was the dead boy she was speaking to,
and I said in a little lonely voice, 'No, it's no him, it's just
me.' Then I heard a cry, and my mother turned in bed, and though
it was dark I knew that she was holding out her arms.
After that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to make her forget
him, which was my crafty way of playing physician, and if I saw any
one out of doors do something that made the others laugh I
immediately hastened to that dark room and did it before her. I
suppose I was an odd little figure; I have been told that my
anxiety to brighten her gave my face a strained look and put a
tremor into the joke (I would stand on my head in the bed, my feet
against the wall, and then cry excitedly, 'Are you laughing,
mother?') - and perhaps what made her laugh was something I was
unconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly now and then, whereupon
I screamed exultantly to that dear sister, who was ever in waiting,
to come and see the sight, but by the time she came the soft face
was wet again. Thus I was deprived of some of my glory, and I
remember once only making her laugh before witnesses. I kept a
record of her laughs on a piece of paper, a stroke for each, and it
was my custom to show this proudly to the doctor every morning.
There were five strokes the first time I slipped it into his hand,
and when their meaning was explained to him he laughed so
boisterously, that I cried, 'I wish that was one of hers!' Then he
was sympathetic, and asked me if my mother had seen the paper yet,
and when I shook my head he said that if I showed it to her now and
told her that these were her five laughs he thought I might win
another.
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