"And Violet is only a poor little hunchback, and has no wings; and mother said he would call me first."
John laid his head down on the pillow and sobbed.
CHAPTER IV. FATHER'S LOVE.
It was thus that Violet came to know that her mother was dead; but weary days and leaden months went by before she ceased to watch and wait for her; and each morning she only awoke to a fresh surprise, a fresh thrill of pain, a fresh wrestling of spirit against what could never be altered.
While her father was in the room she seemed always able to repress the anguish of her little heart. He was so tender, so pitiful; he tried so earnestly to imitate the loving ways and words of the poor dead mother. But when he went out in the morning to the office for his orders, or to the forest to select wood for his trade, and his daughter was left temporarily under the charge of Kate, then it was that all the world seemed going wrong, and that Violet's tears flowed almost ceaselessly.
Kate had a kind, loving heart, but she had, oh, such hard and sharp bones: and she had not learned by long and watchful practice the easiest way to lift the poor invalid. Each day when she raised Violet from her bed and placed her in her bath before the stove, there were bitter cries of pain and sobbing cries for "mother." Kate, too, was somewhat stupid and clumsy in the matter of dressing her charge. She had long sharp nails, which often scraped her little neck and arms; and the strings of the petticoats so often got into knots, which it took tedious minutes to undo again.
Each day when John came home for his dinner at twelve, he found little Violet's eyes red with tears, and her usually pale face swelled and blotched with the traces of past grief.
"Couldst not thou dress me, father?" she had said once pitifully.