“What has papa been doing in the lumber-room, mamma?” asked Julia that same evening.
“Examining some of the old furniture there, my dear,” said Millicent, looking up with a smile. “I think he is going to have it turned into a play-room for you.”
“Oh!” said Julia indifferently; and she turned her thoughtful little face away, while her mother rose with the careworn look that so often sat there, giving place to the happy, maternal smile that came whenever she was alone with her child.
“Why, Julie darling, you seem so quiet and dull to-night. Your little head is hot. You are not unwell, dear?”
She knelt down beside the child, and drew the soft little head to her shoulder, and laid her cheek to the burning forehead.
“That is nice,” said the child, with a sigh of content. “Oh! mamma, it does do me so much good. My head doesn’t ache now.”
“And did it ache before?”
“Yes, a little,” said the child thoughtfully, and turning up her face, she kissed the sweet countenance that was by her side again and again. “I do love you so, mamma.”
“Why of course you do, my dear.”
“I don’t think I love papa.”