“Does that engross your attention so entirely, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, “that you can neither spare one word nor one look for your mother?” “Oh, mamma! I only tried to read, because I thought you were angry with me.” “An odd reason for trying to read, my dear!” said Lady Delacour with a smile: “have you any better reason for thinking I was angry with you?” “Ah, I know you are not angry now, for you smile,” said Helena; “but I thought at first that you were, mamma, because you gave me only your hand to kiss.” “Only my hand! The next time, simpleton, I’ll give you only my foot to kiss,” said her ladyship, sitting down, and holding out her foot playfully. Her daughter threw aside the book, and kneeling down kissed her foot, saying, in a low voice, “Dear mamma, I never was so happy in my life; for you never looked so very, _very_ kindly at me before.” “Do not judge always of the kindness people feel for you, child, by their looks; and remember that it is _possible_ a person might have felt more than you could guess by their looks. Pray now, Helena, you are such a good judge of physiognomy, should you guess that I was dying, by my looks?” The little girl laughed, and repeated “Dying? Oh, no, mamma.” “Oh, no! because I have such a fine colour in my cheeks, hey?” “Not for that reason, mamma,” said Helena, withdrawing her eyes from her mother’s face. “What, then you know rouge already when you see it?--You perceive some difference, for instance, between Miss Portman’s colour and mine? Upon my word, you are a nice observer. Such nice observers are sometimes dangerous to have near one.” “I hope, mother,” said Helena, “that you do not think I would try to find out any thing that you wish, or that I imagined you wished, I should not know.” “I do not understand you, child,” cried Lady Delacour, raising herself suddenly upon the sofa, and looking full in her daughter’s face. Helena’s colour rose to her temples; but, with a firmness that surprised even Belinda, she repeated what she had said nearly in the same words. “Do you understand her, Miss Portman?” said Lady Delacour. “She expresses, I think,” said Belinda, “a very honourable sentiment, and one that is easily understood.” “Ay, in general, certainly,” said Lady Delacour, checking herself; “but I thought that she meant to allude to something in particular--_that_ was what I did not understand. Undoubtedly, my dear, you have just expressed a very honourable sentiment, and one that I should scarcely have expected from a child of your age. “Helena, my dear,” said her mother, after a silence of some minutes, “did you ever read the Arabian Tales?--‘Yes, mamma,’ I know must be the answer. But do you remember the story of Zobeide, who carried the porter home with her on condition that, let him hear or see what he might, he would ask no questions?” “Yes, mamma.” “On the same conditions should you like to stay with me for a few days?”