THE TWO INVALIDS.
THE chamber in which the sick woman lay was furnished with every thing that taste could desire or comfort demand. Yet, from none of these elegant surroundings came there an opiate for the weary spirit, or a balm to soothe the pain from which she suffered. With heavy eyes, contracted brow, and face almost as white as the lace-fringed pillow it pressed, canopied with rich curtains, she reclined, sighing away the weary hours, or giving, voice to her discontent in fruitless complainings.
She was alone. A little while before, her attendant had left the room, taking with her a child, whose glad spirits—glad because admitted to his mother's presence—had disturbed her.
"Take him out," she had said, fretfully.
"You must go back to the nursery, dear." The attendant spoke kindly, as she stooped to lift the child in her arms.
"No—no—no. I want to stay here. Do let me stay here, won't you?"
"Mamma is sick, and you disturb her," was answered.
"Oh no. I won't disturb her. I'll be so good."
"Why don't you take him out at once?" exclaimed the mother, in a harsh, excited voice. "It's too much that I can't have a little quiet! He's made my head ache already. What does nurse mean by letting him come over here?"