“I wish you wouldn’t run away and leave me alone, Ethel. I want to be read to.”
“And I am entirely at your service,” the young girl returned pleasantly, taking up the morning paper again and seating herself near the Madame’s easy chair. “There are some articles here about the Centennial which I am sure will interest you.”
She read with an enthusiasm that was contagious.
“What a pity we should miss it all!” exclaimed the Madame at length. “There will never be another Centennial of our country in my lifetime, or even in yours.”
“No; and why should we not go, as well as others?” Ethel answered with suppressed eagerness.
“Impossible, in my invalid condition.”
“Aunt Nannette,” cried Ethel, throwing down the paper and clasping her hands together in her excitement, “people will be flocking there from all parts of the land and the civilized world. I have a presentiment that my mother will be there, and that we shall meet her if we go!”
“Child, child! do you really think it?” cried the Madame, starting up, then sinking back again upon her cushions panting and trembling.
“I do, Aunt Nannette, I do indeed! and we shall never, never have such another opportunity. And Espy, too, will be there—I know it, I feel it! He is an artist. Will he not have a picture to exhibit?”