“Yes, darling,” said Zuleime, with her eyes suffused. “Don’t cry, please! Mother cries so much. I do wish she wouldn’t! Is the baby’s father dead, too?” “Yes—yes, love—the baby’s father is dead, too!” “Well—_please_ don’t cry so! Mother says we have all got a father in Heaven! _Oh! please_ don’t cry so! It gives me such a—such an ache in the breast to see anybody cry so,” said the child, and her mournful, but most beautiful eyes assumed a pleading, painful, almost _querulous_ look. “Who _is_ your mother, sweet Ida?” asked Zuleime, to change the subject of her own and her little companion’s thoughts. “Mrs. Knight, you know, the leading lady. Did they put the baby’s father in a long red box, and send him away?” “Yes, yes, Ida. Where does your mother live?” “She lives here, in the back room, down stairs. We came to-day. She is going to play to-night, and then I’ll be by myself. Did they hold the baby up to kiss her father like they did me? And did he put his hand on her head and call her his fawn-eyed darling? That was when he was on the bed. And afterwards he went to sleep. And they said he was dead. Was that the way with the baby’s father?” “I don’t want to talk about it, dear Ida. Tell me of your mother. What does she play on—the organ?” “No! I don’t know. Yes I do, too!—the stage. Look at my nice new hat. It used to have a wreath of red roses round it. But when father died, mother took it off and put this black ribbon there. Mother wears roses on her head, though. At night, I mean. All day long she wears black, and looks so pale and weeps. But at night, she puts beautiful flowers in her hair, and sometimes gold and fine feathers—and she has such sweet long curls and rosy cheeks—and such beautiful dresses. And father used to wear beautiful clothes at night, red and gold, and feathers. I do want to see father so much. I wish they’d bring him back. Do you think it will be long before I see him?” asked the child, as the large tears rolled down her cheeks. “Perhaps not, my love. Is your mother an actress, then?” “Yes, that is what she is. Don’t cry, now! It gives me a pain in my bosom. _Please_ don’t cry; if _you_ don’t, _I_ won’t,” said the child, wiping her eyes. Then suddenly she exclaimed, “Oh! I forgot, I promised to bring the baby my playthings and my curly dog”; and so saying, the child ran away and scampered down stairs.