Marjorie and Sadie were so delighted to go for a drive with their pretty elegant sister in mumma’s big carriage that their tongues rattled on unceasingly. “When I’m a big lady like mumma,” little Sadie said, “I’ll have four horses in my carriage, like that one over there, Ada,” and Sadie pointed to a fine four-in-hand coach driven by a well-known leader of New York fashionable world; “and I’ll buy lots of little babies of my very own, that I can wash and dress three or four times a day, but I won’t buy them a horrid cross poppa like our poppa, I’ll buy them a nice kind one, that plays with them, like Sissie Brown’s poppa. Why doesn’t mumma buy a new poppa, Ada?” “Hush, dear,” Ada said; “you can’t buy poppas.” “Then where do they come from?” Sadie asked, with a look of wonder in her eyes. “God gave you yours,” Ada answered absently, for her thoughts were with her mother, who was lying sick in her big luxurious room, watched over by two strange women. The fight Ada was making to appear cheerful was, I am afraid, a very pitiful affair, and more than one pair of eyes were turned curiously upon her. “If God sends poppas I suppose we must just be contented with His choice, but I wish He’d asked me what kind I liked,” Sadie said softly. Meanwhile Ada was throwing a watery little smile on some friend who was eagerly bowing to her, a partner at some dance a few nights ago. Responding to a bow first on this side, and then on that, a good many of the mothers in New York who knew Mrs. Nicoli thought she had brought up her daughter in a very foolish way, but one and all of them agreed that it was evident that the girl’s natural disposition was too simple and good to spoil. She had such gentle, engaging manners, and such sweet blue eyes, no one could help loving her. The next day passed in a very similar manner. Mrs. Nicoli’s condition did not mend. And Ada was still kept in ignorance as to the real character of her complaint. On the afternoon of the third day, when she returned from her drive with the children, she found her mother’s room was empty. The patient and the nurses had both disappeared. When her father came in from business, Ada ran to him and asked for an explanation. Something had prevented her questioning the servants as to where her mother had been taken. “Your mother has gone to a private asylum,” her father answered, with a break in his voice. “You need not tell the children. For the present it was necessary to put her under supervision. Don’t ask me any more questions,” he said impatiently, as Ada, trembling with fear, held on to his coat-sleeve to detain him. “Women like your mother are no use at all at a crisis,” he continued. “The one moment of her married life when I wished for her help she has failed me. You are so like her you would do the same, I suppose.” Mr. Nicoli saw the carnation colour fade out of Ada’s lips and cheeks, but her blue eyes never shrank from his piercing scrutiny of her face.