"
My father laughed heartily. He had some sense of humour, but my mother
had none. She was one of the sweetest-tempered women that ever lived,
and never dreamed that any one was laughing at her. I have heard my
father say she lay awake that night, and when he asked her why she could
not sleep he found she was fretting about the pink thorn.
"It looked so pretty to-day, my dear; and thorns are so bad to move!"
My father knew her too well to hope to console her by joking about it.
He said gravely: "There's plenty of time yet, love. The boys are only
just in trousers; and we may think of some way to spare it before we
come to bricks and mortar."
"I've thought of it every way, my dear, I'm afraid," said my mother with
a sigh. But she had full confidence in my father--a trouble shared with
him was half cured, and she soon fell asleep.
She certainly had a vivid imagination, though it never was cultivated to
literary ends. Perhaps, after all, I inherited that idle fancy, those
unsatisfied yearnings of my restless heart, from her! Mental
peculiarities are said to come from one's mother.
It was Jem who inherited her sweet temper.
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