Even the poor Englishwoman whose face was swollen to the size of two, with erysipelas, and whose constant cry was, "Oh, this hitch in my face!" held her breath to gaze at the pale new comer.
The child, whose name was Mary Larkin, was dressed with exquisite neatness and even taste. Her hair, which was chestnut brown, was smoothly parted from her forehead; a narrow frill was basted into the neck of her dress, which was of soft blue merino; one tiny foot, which had escaped from the shawl which covered her, was cased in a dainty little slipper, the elastic evenly crossed above the open-work sock, while the embroidered pantalet was just visible.
Mary took kindly to Miss Alden, at once, as indeed every body did. She clung tightly to her hand casting shy glances around. It was a novel scene to her, and for a few moments so occupied her attention that she forgot her pain.
In a kind, motherly voice Miss Alden asked, "Wouldn't you like to lie in a nice little house, as the other people do, and have your dolly, and some pretty playthings in there to play with?"
"Yes ma'am, I should."
"Well, let go my hand a minute, and I'll have it all ready for you. You're a good little girl, I am sure."
"I guess you're going to be my mother, now," said Mary, with an arch glance which altered her whole countenance.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE PATIENT CHILD.
MARY LARKIN was the daughter of a tailor. He had two other children, one son of seven years, and a daughter scarcely as many months. Hers was a sad case. One day she and her brother Thomas were playing in the kitchen where their mother was washing; the baby was lying in his cradle, amusing himself with his toes, when suddenly there was a dreadful shriek of distress, and Mrs. Larkin turned to see Mary in a large kettle of boiling water. Thomas had become angry with his little sister and pushed her there.