“Fred,” said Selina, laughing, and kissing her, “you are almost your old self again. It delights me to see you vexed with Prickly Polly.”
Frederica laughed, partly at the old nickname, and partly at Selina’s way of saying it; for French had always been Selina’s language with her mother, and she spoke English with an accent not at all like the rest.
“But she is not ‘Prickly Polly’ now. She is not easily offended as she used to be. I have not tried certainly; but she has a grand and satisfied air, as though she had but to speak to put things on a pleasant footing—for herself at least.”
“You must rise, Fred, and sit on this chair. You are quite well, I am sure. She was not ten minutes in the room, and you saw all that.”
“Oh! Selina,” said Frederica, with a sigh, “it is very sad to think now of the days when we were young and had no trouble.”
“But then, we are still rather young, are we not?” said Selina gravely. “And if you remember, there never was a time when we were quite without trouble. Always mama was ill, and there were other things sometimes.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Mama will not suffer any more, and I am glad for her.”
But it was a tearful smile that bore witness to her gladness, and Frederica broke into weeping as she looked at her sister’s face.
“Oh! Lena! Lena!” she gasped, “are we never to have her with us any more? nor papa—”