“Yes,” she answered, “I can read very well. Mamma makes me read my letters.”
“Well, then, read a little to me,” said I, pointing to a printed paper which she held crumpled in one of her dimpled hands.
She shook her pretty head, saying,—
“Oh, dear me! I can only read fables.”
“But try, my darling: come, open your paper.”
She unfolded the paper, and began to spell with her finger, “S E N—sen,—T E N C E—tence,—Sentence.” I snatched it from her hands. It was my own sentence of death she was reading to me!
Her nurse had bought the paper for a penny. To me it had cost more.
No words can convey what I felt; my violence had alarmed the child, who was ready to cry.
Suddenly she said to me,—
“Do give me back my paper; I want to play with it!”