“Oh, dear, I hope not!” said Cricket, looking troubled. “When I’m rich, Hilda,”—with the confidence of childhood that such a time is surely coming,—“I’ll give everything I have to poor people, so they won’t have to work so hard, and can get books to read.”
“But you couldn’t do that,” objected Hilda, practically, “for you would not have anything left for yourself, and you’d be poor. And if nobody was poor, who’d do our cooking, and all those things?”
This problem was too deep for Cricket’s troubled little brain.
“It’s a puzzle,” she sighed; then she added, brightening, “I’ll ask papa; he’ll fix it, when he’s rich. But—I don’t see why—” she pondered, struck by another thought, “why I should have a nice home and such a dear family, and books, and everything I want, and Mosina have only this little room and not much to eat. Suppose I’d happened to be Mosina, and Mosina had been me! Oh, dear! it gets worse and worse!”
And Cricket, with a sigh of puzzlement over this problem of all ages, dropped a kiss on Mosina’s placid cheek.
But Mosina, herself, suddenly put an end to the consideration of all hard questions, by setting up one of her unexpected roars, as she doubled herself up like a little jack-knife. Poor little thing! the ice-cold milk had naturally given her a severe attack of colic.
“What is the matter, baby?” cried Cricket, in dismay, cuddling Mosina in her arms, in her motherly little fashion. Mosina roared on, alternately doubling herself up and straightening herself out. Cricket and Hilda began to get thoroughly frightened.
“Cricket, she isn’t dying, is she?” whispered Hilda, trembling. Not having any brothers or sisters, she was perfectly helpless with children.
“I don’t know, but I guess not,” said Cricket, feeling rather disturbed, herself. “There, baby! hush, dear! What shall I do for you? Mercy, Hilda, she’s getting black in the face! Do go for somebody.”
“Where shall I go?” asked Hilda helplessly, wringing her hands.