"Mother wants Aggy."
What magic words! The crying has ceased instantly, and rainbow smiles are seen through falling tears.
"Dear little dove! What has troubled it?" How tender and soothing and full of love is the voice that utters these words! We lift Aggy upon the bed. A moment, and her fresh warm cheek is close to the pale face of her mother; while her hand is nestling in her bosom.
The smile that plays so beautifully over the invalid's face has already answered the question we were about to ask—"Will not the child disturb you?" But our face has betrayed our thoughts, and she says—
"I can't bear to have Aggy away from me. She rarely annoys me. A dear, good child—yet only a child, for whom only a mother can think wisely. She rarely leaves my room that she doesn't get into some trouble; but my presence quickly restores the sunshine."
The bell rings. There is a murmur of voices below; and now light feet come tripping up the stairs. The door opens and two little girls enter, just from school. Does the sick mother put up her hand to enjoin silence? Does she repel them,—by look or word? Oh no.
"Well, Mary—well, Anna?" she says, kindly. They bend over and kiss her gently and lovingly; then speak modestly to the visitor.
"How do you feel, mother?" asks the oldest of the two girls. "Does your head ache?"
"Not now, dear. It ached a little while ago; but it is better now."
"What made it ache, mother?"