“No; don’t have rice and maccaroni. Tell cook not to send up two farinaceous puddings the same day. It annoys papa.”
“Because they are good for him,” said Sarah drily.
“Ah!” said Claude, turning upon her sharply, but with a playful manner; “you must not censure sick people. Why, Sarah, what makes you watch me so intently?”
There were tears in the woman’s eyes, as, with a hysterical catching of the breath, she took hold of the hand which was passing her a package, and pressed it passionately to her lips, kissing it again and again.
“Sarah!”
“Don’t be angry with me, my dear. I’m not the same as I used to be. Trouble has changed me; I couldn’t help it. When I see you grown up into such a beautiful woman, so calm and quiet and ladylike, quite the mistress of the house, and talking as you do, it gives me a catching in the throat.”
“You are not well.”
“Yes, my dear, quite well; but it makes me think of the tiny girl who used to love me so, and whose pretty little arms were thrown about my neck, and who kissed me every night when she went to bed.”
“Yes; but I was a little girl then.”
“You were, my dear; and don’t you remember, when I heard you say your prayers, it was always, ‘Pray God, bless Sarah,’ as well as those whom it was your duty to pray for. Ah, Miss Claude, you used to love me then.”