“I dreaded the effect of a child's high animal spirits and thoughtless bustle upon her mother's health”--the shadow thickening into trouble. “The next best thing to having her with me is to know that she is kindly and lovingly looked after by my married sister, of whom she is very fond. Florence is merrier, if not always happier, with her young cousins than if she were condemned to the repression and joyless routine of a house where the care of the sick is the most engrossing business to all.” The more Mrs. Sutton meditated upon this conversation, the more enigmatical it appeared that the mother never spoke of missing her only living child--never pined for the sound of her vivacious talk and the sight of her winning ways. Curiosity--her strong love for all children, and a lively interest in Florence and Florence's father, the two who assuredly did feel the separation--got the ascendency over discretion that night, when Rosa, too nervous to sleep, begged her to talk, “to scare away the horrors that were sitting, a blue-black brood, upon her pillow.” “Your little daughter would be an endless source of entertainment to you if she were here,” said downright Aunt Rachel, with no show of circumlocution. “I am surprised you do not send for her.” “Children of that age are a nuisance!” returned Rosa, peevishly. “And of all tiresome ones that I ever saw, Florence is the most trying. She doesn't talk after I bid her hold her tongue, but her big, solemn eyes see and her ears hear all that passes. If there is one thing that pushes me nearer to the verge of distraction than another it is to have my own words quoted to me when I have forgotten that I ever uttered them. And she--literal little bore!--is always pretending to take all that I say in earnest. If I were to tell her to go to Guinea, it is my belief she would put on her bonnet, cloak, and gloves, pocket a biscuit for luncheon and a story-book to read by the way, and set out forthwith, asking the first decent-looking man she met in the street at what wharf she would find a vessel bound for Africa.” Mrs. Sutton was obliged to laugh. “She must be a truthful, sincere little thing!” “Didn't I tell you she is TOO outrageously literal and unimaginative? Just let me give you an example of how she tires and vexes me. One day, about a fortnight before I left home, she set her heart upon spending the whole of Saturday afternoon with me. Her father objected, for he understands, if he does not sympathize with me, what a trial she is to flesh and spirit. But I was moderately comfortable, and my nerves were less unruly than usual, so I said we would try and get on together. “No sooner had he gone than the catechism commenced: “'Now, mamma, what can I do to amuse you?' “She talks like a woman of fifty. “'What should you propose if I were to leave it to you?' I asked. “'I suppose,' said my Lady Cutshort, 'that it would excite you too much to talk, so I had better read aloud. What book do you prefer?'