“Papa? Yes, he’s very well, but mamma,” and the child put on a very wise and confidential look as she added in a whisper, “mamma’s _shiffless_ all the time.” Bee could not repress a smile at this quaint form of speech, and she asked: “And do you take care of baby? Is there no nurse?” “We had Leah over home,” Trixey said, “but she couldn’t come with us, ’cause we’re so poor, an’ papa has no money.” “But he buyed me some yed soos,” Bunchie said, sticking up her little feet, encased in a new pair of red morocco shoes, the first she had ever had or probably seen. How Beatrice’s heart yearned over these little ones who had known only poverty, and how she longed to lavish upon them a part of her superfluous wealth. There was a stir on the bed; the sleeper was waking, and a faint voice called: “Trixey, are you here?” “Yes, mamma. I’ve rocked brother to seep,” Trixey said, starting up, but holding fast to the baby as a cat holds to its kitten. “There’s a lady here, mamma, comed to see us,” the child continued, and then Mrs. Morton roused quickly, and turning on her side fixed her great sunken eyes inquiringly on Beatrice, who stepped forward, and with that winning sweetness and grace so natural to her, said: “I doubt if you remember me, Mrs. Morton, as you only saw me once, and that for a few moments, before the _Guide_ sailed from here six years ago. I am an old friend of your husband’s. I met him in Paris first and many times after in America. Perhaps you have heard him speak of Miss Beatrice Belknap?” “Yes, Trixey was named for you. It was kind in you to call,” Mrs. Morton said, and now she sat upon the side of the bed and began to bind up her long black hair, which had fallen in her neck. “Let me do that,” Bee said, as she saw how the exertion of raising her arms made the invalid cough; and drawing off her gloves, her white hands, on which so many costly jewels were shining, were soon arranging and twisting the long hair which, though mixed with gray, was very glossy and luxuriant. “You have nice hair, and so much of it,” she said, and Mrs. Morton replied: “Yes, it is very heavy even yet, and is all I have left of my youth, though I am not so very old, only thirty; but the life of a missionary’s wife is not conducive to the retaining of one’s good looks.” “Was it so very dreadful?” Bee asked, a little curious about the life which might have been her own. “Not dreadful, but hard; that is, it was very hard on me, who was never strong, though I seemed so to strangers. I could not endure much, and was sick all the way out, so sick that I used to wish I might die and be buried in the sea. Then Trixey came so soon, and the care of her, and the food, and the climate, and the manner of living there, and the terrible homesickness! Oh, I was so homesick, at first, that I should surely have died, if Theo had not been so good. He was always kind, and tried to spare me every way.”