As the long, golden afternoon slid away, we came out by the front gate to watch for the child's mother. I was tired, and, lying back on the grass, gave Faith some pink and purple larkspurs, that she might amuse herself in making a chain of them. The picture that she made sitting there on the short dying grass—the light which broke all about her and over her at the first, creeping slowly down and away to the west, her little fingers linking the rich, bright flowers, tube into tube, the dimple on her cheek and the love in her eyes—has photographed itself into my thinking.
How her voice rang out, when the wheels sounded at last, and the carriage, somewhat slowly driven, stopped!
"Mamma, mamma! see what I've got for you, mamma!"
Auntie tried to step from the carriage, and called me: "Mary, can you help me a little? I am—tired."
I went to her, and she leaned heavily on my arm, and we came up the path.
"Such a pretty little chain, all for you, mamma," began Faith, and stopped, struck by her mother's look.
"It has been a long ride, and I am in pain. I believe I will lie right down on the parlor sofa. Mary, would you be kind enough to give Faith her supper and put her to bed?"
Faith's lip grieved.
"Cousin Mary isn't you, mamma. I want to be kissed. You haven't kissed me."
Her mother hesitated for a moment; then kissed her once, twice; put both arms about her neck, and turned her face to the wall without a word.