"And what became of your own baby?" asked Flora, very much interested.
"She lived to be five years old, and then she was taken home. See, here is her picture."
Flora looked long and earnestly at the little miniature that Mrs. Hausen opened for her.
"She was very pretty; wasn't she?" she finally remarked.
"Yes, she had a beautiful face; and often showed sparks of great intelligence, though she never learned to talk plainly. So, you see, my dear, that I have been envious as well as you; and, also, that there are some things that money cannot buy."
"Money made a difference, though,' said Flora.
"I don't understand you, Florry."
"I don't know how to say what I mean, exactly," said Flora. "There is Mrs. Murray—Anne Murray, you know, the coloured washerwoman. She loves her little hump-backed girl dearly, and is as good to her as she can be; and yet she has to go away and leave her all day, with nobody but the neighbours to look after her; and in winter, Chloe has no place to sit, only in the kitchen full of steam and the smell of cooking, and all. That wasn't the way with your little girl."
Mrs. Hausen smiled. "You are a very thoughtful child, Florry. I see what you mean, and you are right. Money did make a difference. Poor Alice never wanted for any comfort or pleasure she could enjoy; and I gave my whole time to her, as I could not have done if I had been obliged to work in order to support her. But tell me about Mrs. Murray's little girl. How old is she?"
"She is eight years old; but she is so little she doesn't look more than five," replied Florry. "She is ever so smart, too. She can read and sew; and she dresses her dolls so nicely, for all she has hardly anything to make its clothes of. And you never saw anybody so patient as she is."