Mrs. Dodd caressed the lovely head soothingly with one hand, and made a sign over it to Edward to leave them alone. She waited quietly till Julia was composed: and then said, softly, “Come, tell me what it is: nothing that Edward said to you; for I heard almost every word, and I was just going to smile, or nearly, when you---- And, my love, it is not the first time, you know. I would not tell Edward, but I have more than once seen your eyes with tears in them.” “Have you, mamma?” said Julia, scarcely above a whisper. “Why, you know I have. But I said to myself it was no use forcing confidence. I thought I would be very patient, and wait till you came to me with it; so now, what is it, my darling? Why do you speak of one thing and think of another? and cry without any reason that your mother can see?” “I don't know, mamma,” said Julia, hiding her head. “I think it is because I sleep so badly. I rise in the morning hot and quivering, and more tired than I lay down.” Mrs. Dodd inquired how long this had been. Julia did not answer this question; she went on, with her face still hidden: “Mamma, I do feel so depressed and hysterical, or else in violent spirits: but not nice and cheerful as you are, and I used to be; and I go from one thing to another, and can settle to nothing--even in church I attend by fits and starts: I forgot to water my very flowers last night: and I heard Mrs. Maxley out of my window tell Sarah I am losing my colour. Am I? But what does it matter? I am losing my sense; for I catch myself for ever looking in the glass, and that is a sure sign of a fool, you know. And I cannot pass the shops: I stand and look in, and long for the very dearest silks, and for diamonds in my hair.” A deep sigh followed the confession of these multiform imperfections; and the culprit half raised her head to watch their effect. As for Mrs. Dodd, she opened her eyes wide with surprise; but at the end of the heterogeneous catalogue she smiled, and said, “I cannot believe _that._ If ever there was a young lady free from personal vanity, it is my Julia. Why, your thoughts run by nature away from yourself; you were born for others.” Her daughter kissed her gratefully, and smiled: but after a pause, said, sorrowfully, “Ah! that was the old Julia, as seen with your dear eyes. I have almost forgotten _her._ The new one is what I tell you, dear mamma, and that” (within sudden fervour) “is a dreamy, wandering, vain, egotistical, hysterical, abominable girl.” “Let me kiss this monster that I have brought into the world,” said Mrs. Dodd. “And now let me think.” She rested her eyes calm and penetrating upon her daughter; and at this mere look, but a very searching one, the colour mounted and mounted in Julia's cheek strangely. “After all,” said Mrs. Dodd thoughtfully, “yours is a critical age. Perhaps my child is turning to a woman; my rosebud to a rose. And she sighed. Mothers will sigh at things none other ever sighed at.