Lottie could not understand it. A perfumed baby, in lace and muslin, might be a nice pet if the nurse were always within call; but the sole care of this chubby-cheeked Moloch, that would sacrifice its mother as unconsciously and complacently as the plant absorbs moisture, seemed almost as prosaic and dreadful as being devoured alive. "Does no one help you take care of that child?" asked she. "Well, my husband and the elder children help some." "Haven't you a nurse for all these children?" "No, indeed. It's as much as we can do to clothe and feed them." "Don't you keep any servants at all?" "Yes, we have a girl in the kitchen, but she's almost as much bother as she is worth." "How do you get along?" "I hardly know--somewhat as the birds do out of doors." "Are you happy?" "I've hardly time to think. I think I am, though,--happy as most people. Some days bright, some days cloudy, and now and then a storm. That's the way it is with all, I imagine. We all have our crosses, you know, but by and by all will come right." "I should be cross enough with all your crosses." "They might make you patient. The crossest people I know are those who shun all crosses." "Now I think of it, I'm inclined to believe that's true," said Lottie, reflectively. Then she whispered, as she walked softly to the mother's side, "Baby is going to sleep, isn't it?" With different expressions they both peered into the full-moon face, two features of which, the eyes, were becoming obliterated by the white, drooping lids. Lottie looked as if she were examining a zoological specimen. Mrs. Dlimm gazed with a smile of deep content and tenderness. The undisturbed rest of the child upon her bosom was a type of her own mind at that moment. She was nature's child, God's child, and the babe was hers. To the true and simple children of nature, who, without thought of self or the public eye, are quietly doing their duty in their own little niches, these moments of peace with strange thrills of joy are constantly coming. If this worn mother could look down upon the child, and her plain, pale face grow beautiful with spiritual light, how must the God who inspires all love--who is the source of tenderness--have regarded her? The expression of this woman's face puzzled Lottie beyond measure. It was so incongruous, irreconcilable with the burdens, the weary cares, and ceaseless toil and anxiety of her lot. It was so out of keeping with the noisy throng and confused bustle that filled the house, and it dimly suggested to the proud belle a condition of mind before undreamt of in her philosophy. Some new and curious thoughts stole into her heart as she watched the mother slowly rocking backward and forward, uttering a low, crooning lullaby,--the gentlest sound that ever falls on mortal ears. For some reason there came into her soul a sudden loathing of her own selfishness and callousness.