“And you are a very foolish, dear old nurse, and you will love our baby, too, won’t you now?” clasping her also, zealously.

“Be still, child—­here comes Charity.  She will think you crazy to be rumpling my cap in that way, and talking about such matters.  You are getting to be a perfect tomboy, Miriam!  What would your papa say if he could see you now, so dirty and disorderly—­your papa, as neat as a pink always?—­Charity, what kept you so long to-day?  Be quick and get Miss Miriam’s new cambric dress, and her blue sash, and her new, long, gray kid gloves, and her leghorn hat, and white zephyr scarf.  She is going to drive out presently with her mamma and papa, and must look decent for once in a while.”  After a pause she continued:  “Miss Evelyn was dressed an hour ago, and is ready at the gate now, with her leghorn flat on and her parasol in her hand, I’ll be bound,” looking from the window.  “There comes Norman Stanbury home from school.  That’s the idea, is it?” and the good nurse looked grave.  “It will never do, it will never do in the world,” she said, as she glanced at them, then turned away, shaking her head dolefully.  “My child, my pretty piece of wax-work, must do better than that comes to.  Her blood must never mix with such as runs in the veins of the Stanbury clan.”

About a month later the feeble wail of my little sister greeted my ear as I entered my mamma’s room one morning, in obedience to her summons, and my heart was filled with a rapture almost as great as hers who owned this priceless treasure.

Three weeks later, very suddenly and most unexpectedly, my dear mamma was stricken mortally as she sat, apparently quite convalescent, in her deep chair by the cradle, smiling at and caressing her infant.  Mrs. Austin and I were alone in the room with her; papa and Evelyn had gone out for a walk.  I had just been thinking how very pretty she looked that day in her white wrapper, with a pink ribbon at the throat, and her little, closely-fitting lace cap, through which her rich brown hair was distinctly visible.  She had a fine oval face, clear, pallid skin, and regular though not perfect features, and never appeared so interesting or beautiful as now, in the joy and pride of her new maternity.  Suddenly she grew strikingly pale, gasped, stretched out her hands, fixed her imploring eyes on me, and fell back, half fainting, in her chair.

By the time we had placed her on her bed she was insensible, breathing hard, though with a low fluttering pulse, that kept hope alive until the doctor came.  The moment he beheld her he knew that all was over; remedies were tried in vain.  She never spoke again, and, when my father returned an hour later, a senseless mass of snow replaced the young wife he had left, happy and hopeful.

I was spared the first manifestations of his agony, in which disappointment and the idea of being pursued by a relentless fate bore so great a part, by my own condition, which rendered me insensible for nearly thirty hours, to all that passed around me.  It was afternoon when I awoke, as if from a deep sleep, to find myself alone with Mrs. Austin in my chamber.