Lucy never thought of warming the rubbers, and she was a good girl too.
When Mrs. Abbott stepped into the cold hall, Rose followed with a little white lambswool shawl, begging her to put it over her shoulders.
She did not like to give her beautiful sick mother any trouble, so she dressed and undressed herself, though scarcely five years old; and every day, after dinner, went to her little room, lay down on the bed, and took her nap without being told.
Mrs. Abbott had been in New Jersey only three days, when Dr. Gray telegraphed to her that Rosie was ill, and she hurried home as fast as she could.
The morning after she returned was little Rosie's birthday, and that morning a present had come from her dear, good "Unker Willum,"—a lovely muff and tippet, such as she had long been wishing to have. Mamma brought them and laid them beside her on the bed.
"Wasn't it beautiful?" mamma said. "And see the squirrel's head on the muff, and the cunning porte-monnaie inside."
"Yes, pretty, pretty," said little Rosie; for her head was thumping so hard that it did not please her very much, after all.
Once she had told dear "Unker Willum" that, if she had a lot of money, she should be "perfickly happy."
"How much money would make you perfickly happy?" he asked.
"Three hundred and three thousand and thirty-six cents," said Rose; and, every time he asked her, she gave the same answer.