"O mother," said Rotha, standing at the window one day in the late spring, "I think the city is just horrid!"
"Never mind, my child. We have a comfortable home, and a great deal to be thankful for."
"If I could only see the butterflies in the fields again!" sighed Rotha.
Her mother echoed the sigh, but this time said nothing.
"And I would like a good big tumbler of real milk, and some strawberries, and some of your bread and butter, mother."
"Yes, my child."
"Mother, how comes it that aunt Serena is rich, and you and I are so poor?"
"You have asked me that before."
"But you didn't tell me."
"I told you, it was in consequence of the different marriages we made."
"Yes, I know. But you were not poor before you married father, were you?"