Mary looked long and wistfully into that lovely face, with only such admiration as one bereft of all personal attractions can feel for beauty. Isabel clung closer to her, and wept more quietly.
"You will come and see me very often?" she whispered.
"Yes," sobbed Mary, "if they will let me."
"Where are they going to leave you?"
"I don't know, I haven't thought to ask till now."
"I hope it will be near, Mary; and then, you know, we will see each other every day," cried the child, brightening through her tears.
"But I am afraid Mrs. Farnham don't like me well enough. She may not allow it," answered Mary, with a meek smile.
"But I will," persisted Isabel, flinging back her head, with an air that brought fresh tears into Mary's eyes.
"Isabel," she said gravely, and striving to suppress her grief, "don't—don't—Mrs. Farnham is your mother now."
"No, she isn't though. She frightens me to death with her kindness. She don't love me a bit, only because my face is so pretty. I wish it wasn't, and then, perhaps, I could go with you."