"But that is different," mother objected. "She is their own mother, and love helps her to bear her burden."
"So it does me," I returned. "I love the children exactly as if they were my own."
"That," she said, "is impossible."
"I certainly do," I persisted.
Mother would not dispute with me, though I wished she would.
"A mother," she went on, "receives her children one at a time, and gradually adjusts herself to gradually increasing burdens. But you take a whole houseful upon you at once, and I am sure it is too much for you. You do not look or act like yourself."
"It isn't the children," I said.
"What is it, then?"
"Why, it's nothing," I said, pettishly.
"I must say, dear," said mother, not noticing my manner, "that your wonderful devotion to the children, aside from its effect on your health and temper, has given me great delight."