“I should not like to leave my little child alone, madam.”
“Let me!—let me!—let me go up and stay with the baby!” eagerly interrupted Ida, jumping down from the bed, and running up and seizing the hand of her mother.
The dark eyes sank fondly on the little one, and the rich voice—richer now with maternal love, replied—
“Certainly you may go, if the lady will permit you to do so.”
Zuleime hesitated again, then said—
“Thank you. I shall be very glad. Let me go up first, and make the fire safe.” And she left the room, followed by Ida, who ran back first, to throw her arms around her mother’s neck, and kiss her “good-bye.”
When Zuleime reached her room, she placed the blower before the grate, for safety—hid away all implements with which the children might harm themselves, and leaving the little ones at play upon the rag carpet, returned below stairs, and went to work. Her new occupation was indeed of an odd and miscellaneous description—ripping off gold lace, and sewing in its place imitation sable; trimming buskins, and lastly, making up an ancient coiffure, all under the direction of the shadowy-faced woman, who, all this time, sat upon the trunk, with a tattered play-book on her knee, studying her part.
Zuleime spoke of Ida—her beauty, her charming manner.
“Is she? Do you find her so? I thought that might be only my partiality. Poor little one! She is a great comfort and a great sorrow to me, if you can understand such a paradox.”
“Yes, I can understand it,” said Zuleime.