"Oh! Mary—Mary!" exclaimed Rachel, and there was tenderness and pathos in her voice; "Mary, I hope you love your father—I hope you love him."
"Who said I didn't?"
"Ah! but I fear you do not love him as much as he loves you."
"To be sure I don't," replied Mary, who had grown up in the firm conviction that children were domestic idols, of which fathers were the born worshippers.
"But you must try—but you must try," very earnestly said Rachel.
"Promise me that you will try, Mary."
She spoke in a soft, low voice; but Mary, wearied with the discourse, turned her head away.
"I can't talk, my back aches," she said peevishly.
"Mary's back always aches when she don't want to speak," ironically observed Jane.
"You mind your own business, will you!" cried Mary, reddening, and speaking very fast. "I don't want your opinion, at all events; and if I did—"
"I thought you couldn't talk, your back ached so," quietly put in Jane.