"Mamma," said Adela to her one day, after some mutual bickering, "do you want me to die?"
"Don't talk like a simpleton," retorted Lady Acorn.
"I think I shall die—if I have to lead this life much longer."
"You are as much likely to die as I am. What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. I think I must—must kill myself, or something. Take a dose of opium, perhaps."
"You wicked girl! Running on in that false manner! Whatever your life may be, you have brought it upon yourself."
"Yes," thought Adela, "there lies the sting."
"What's the matter with the life?" tartly resumed her mother.
"It is so weary. And there's no hope left in it."
"It would not be weary if you chose to exert yourself. Get music—books—work. Look at Grace, how busy she is when we are staying here, with her sick-clubs, and her poor cottagers, and her schools."