“A year or two later, slowly, silently, and peacefully she passed away.”

“I thought, auntie,” said Gabrielle, “that you lived with mamma when Pickie was a baby.  I am sure I have heard her say that you helped her to take care of him.”

“That is true, dear,” replied mamma, “but I did not remain in New York at the time of which we are now speaking.  I accompanied mother home to Pennsylvania, and the following spring, when Pickie was a year old, your mamma wrote to ask me to come back, and assist her in the care of her beautiful boy.  I remained with her until my marriage, consequently Pickie became very near to me, and his death was almost as great a shock to me as it was to his parents.”

“Do tell us, mamma,” said Marguerite, “about Pickie’s childhood.  I have always heard that he was brought up in a very remarkable way, but beyond the fact of Aunt Mary’s great devotion to him, I know very little concerning him.”

“Your Aunt Mary,” mamma replied, “looked upon Pickie’s birth as much in the light of a miracle as if no other child had ever before been born.  He was Heaven-sent to her, and she sacrificed herself completely for the better development of Pickie’s individuality, or, to use the language of the reformers of those days, in ’illustrating the independence of the child’s self-hood.’  Nothing could have been more boundless than her enthusiasm for her baby; and it was night and day her study to guard his health, and to watch and cherish his opening intellect.  No child prince could have been more tenderly and daintily nurtured than he was; as his father often said, ’Pickie is a dear boy in every sense of the word;’ for nothing was too rare or too costly for him.

“You have heard of the brilliancy of his complexion:  this was owing in part to his mother’s watchful care of his diet, and to his bathing.  An hour was allowed for his daily bath, and for brushing out his luxuriant, silken hair.  This was one of my duties, and no doubt it was that scrupulous care that gave it so rare a shade.

“As for his food, it was quite peculiar.  He never ate baker’s bread, nor indeed any bread prepared by other hands than his mother’s or mine, and he was not given meat or cake—­with the exception of oatmeal cake—­while candies, or indeed sugar in any form, butter, and salt were rigidly excluded from his diet; but white grapes, and every choice fruit that this or foreign markets afforded, he was allowed to eat in abundance, and the result of this system was a sturdy constitution, and a complexion unparalleled for beauty.

“I said that he never ate butter; but cream and milk were given him instead.”

“What sort of toys did he have, mamma?” I inquired.  “I can never imagine him playing with dolls like an ordinary child.”