After a little she went to her door and looked out at them. The children were both seated upon the floor, with Virgie’s toys between them, and were chatting gayly with all the unconscious freedom of childhood.
“Oh, mamma, you are better!” cried Virgie, catching sight of her mother, her face lighting with pleasure, “and how nice you look! Willie,” turning with an impressive air to her companion, “do you know I think my mamma is the prettiest mamma there is in the world; yours is very nice and grand, but I don’t think she is quite as lovely as mine.”
The boy fixed his eyes on Virgie, and looked gravely thoughtful for a moment, as if debating the point in his mind, and she was amused, in spite of her pain, by his evident desire to be guilty of no disloyalty, and yet not wound his new friend by contradicting her assertion, as he replied:
“Well, perhaps; but my papa is very handsome. Where is your papa?”
“Sh!” Virgie whispered, as her mother turned quickly away at the question and walked to the end of the corridor, where there was an alcove inclosed by rich draperies, “it makes mamma very sad to say anything about my papa. We lost him when I was a little baby.”
“Lost him!”
“Yes; he went away over the same sea that you had to cross and he never came back.”
“Oh! he was drownded!” whispered the little fellow, in an awe-stricken voice, and looking exceedingly shocked.
“What is your mamma’s name?” he asked, after a pause.
“Virginia—the same as mine. What is yours?”