VIOLETS AND VIOLETTA.
When spring came, Bertie went one morning into his mamma's chamber with a bunch of the earliest violets.
The curtains were dropped before the large bay window, and though it was not cold a pleasant fire crackled in the open grate.
"Why, mamma, are you sick?" Bertie asked, running quickly to the side of the bed.
"Have you seen papa?" said mamma, smiling. "He went out to tell you I have a present for you."
"No, mamma, I didn't see him."
She turned down the sheet and showed him a tiny baby lying by her side, trying to suck its own little rosy finger.
Bertie was so astonished he could not speak.
"It's your little sister, my son, and if papa consents, you may call her Violetta in memory of these pretty flowers."