That window was her favorite seat; there she used to toss the baby up and down, to catch the woodbine branches that clambered over the open window; they still stirred with life—but oh, where was the little dimpled hand, so late outstretched in glee to reach them?
Just one short week ago that day (before "the baby" was taken sick), oh, how well she remembered it, how bright it looked that morning, with its snowy frock and blue ribbons, she stood just in that spot with it; a pane of glass had lately been broken, and the cement in the new one was yet fresh; the baby pressed its tiny little finger on it, and left its impress. No wonder Mary sits there passing her own finger slowly over the indentation, while the tears chase each other down her face; oh, to how many maternal hearts have such memories been at once a sorrow and a solace?
CHAPTER XIV.
"Oh, Aunt Dolly!" said Rose, coming in with her face all a-glow, "will you please tell me is this my mother's thimble? I found it in the drawer, and may I have it?" she asked, pressing it to her lips.
"It don't take me long to answer questions," said Dolly; "it is your mother's, and you may not have it. You had no business to go ferreting round among my things."
"You told me to go to the drawer, and get the thread," answered Rose, "and it lay right there, and I could not help seeing it. Won't you please let me have it? I shall be so happy if you will."
Poor child! This was the worst argument she could have used.
"I will do any thing, Aunt Dolly, if you will," said she, poising the coveted treasure on her tiny finger. "I'll—I'll—"