“I do wish sometimes that I was pretty, and that—that—I don’t know how to say it—that people made a fuss about me sometimes.”
Her mamma looked a little grave and a little sad; but still she smiled. She could not be angry—thought Louisa.
“Is it naughty, mamma?” she whispered.
“Naughty? No, dear; it is a wish most little girls have, I fancy—and big ones too. But some day you will understand how it might grow into a wrong feeling, and how on the other side a little of it may be useful to help good feelings. And till you understand better, dear, doesn’t it make you happy to know that to me you could not be dearer if you were the most beautiful little princess in the world.”
“As beautiful as Princess Fair Star, mamma?”
“Yes, or any other princess you can think of. I would rather have my little mouse of a girl than any of them.”
Louisa nestled closer to her mamma with great satisfaction. “I like you to call me your mouse, mamma; and do you know I almost think I like having a cold.”
Her mother laughed. “Am I making a little fuss about you? Is that what you like?”
Louisa laughed too.
“Do you think I should leave off playing with the reels, and making stories about them, mamma? Is it silly?”