“‘Grandmamma, tell me something about mamma—you are so like her picture.’
“Aunt Marion, who was sitting upon the sofa opposite to me, gave me a quick glance, frowned, and shook her head; then, getting up, said:
“‘Mary, please run and get my thimble out of my work-basket—it is lying out on the piazza.’
“I ran and brought the thimble. What was this about my mother? Was I never to know? My face flushed hot, my heart began to beat fast and loud. My father—oh, my father! Alone, alone—the world seemed so empty and hard and cold. I suppose grandmamma noticed my loneliness and sadness, for one day she said to me:
“‘Why don’t you play with your cousins?’
“‘I don’t care to play—they are so rough.’
“‘But, Mary, don’t you know your father wished you to be well and strong by the time he came back?’
“‘Yes, ma’am.’
“‘You will not become so by moping in this melancholy way. My dear, I think you take but a poor way of showing your affection for your dear papa.’
“‘But, grandmamma, I’m quite sure I never can be happy without him; there is no use in trying. The time will seem so long before he comes back.’