And then, in the pause of the child’s wails and broken talk, and baby plaints, she ran up stairs at once, and there, kneeling before her door, and talking through the key-hole, was a sweet little dark haired girl of about five years old, and dressed in deep mourning. Her hat of the finest Leghorn straw, the richness of the black ribbon that bound it—the fineness of the black bombazine frock and the linen cambric tucker, the delicate shoes and stockings—the gentle, refined manner, all bespoke a child of a different rank from those seen in that neighborhood, and especially in that house. The child got up and stood aside when she saw the lady come with the key to unlock the door. When Zuleime had entered her room, and lifted the babe to her lap, she called the little girl up to her side. She was a lovely child indeed, with fair skin and delicate features—jet black hair, eyebrows and eyelashes, and large, mournful, dark gray eyes.
“You are a dear little girl. What is your name? asked Zuleime, pulling her around her waist caressingly.
“Ida ——; see what a nice new black dress I’ve got. They gave it to me when father died. Mother wears one, too. You’ve got a black dress on, too! Is your father dead?”
“Yes, darling,” said Zuleime, with her eyes suffused.
“Don’t cry, please! Mother cries so much. I do wish she wouldn’t! Is the baby’s father dead, too?”
“Yes—yes, love—the baby’s father is dead, too!”
“Well—please don’t cry so! Mother says we have all got a father in Heaven! Oh! please don’t cry so! It gives me such a—such an ache in the breast to see anybody cry so,” said the child, and her mournful, but most beautiful eyes assumed a pleading, painful, almost querulous look.
“Who is your mother, sweet Ida?” asked Zuleime, to change the subject of her own and her little companion’s thoughts.
“Mrs. Knight, you know, the leading lady. Did they put the baby’s father in a long red box, and send him away?”
“Yes, yes, Ida. Where does your mother live?”