The child was delighted. Both were delighted. They hugged each other. They played peekaboo! They took kisses from each other’s lips; and, oh, what a good time they had! It lasted nearly five minutes. Little Rosa would fain have been held longer; but mother had too much to do. The singular part of it was, and the sorrowful part, that Mrs. Melendy appeared to consider her five minutes’ good time as a stolen pleasure. It was enjoyed with the feeling that she ought to be doing something else. I had the curiosity to wait and see what that something else was, and found it to be lemon-pies. [Illustration] How is my theory going to work in Tweenit, if mothers have to steal time to fondle their children? I came across a story the other day, which contained an excellent moral, well conveyed. I carried the book in to Mrs. Melendy, and said to her, “This story is exactly the thing for your little boys. You might read it aloud some evening, and talk it over with them.” “O Mr. McKimber!” said she, “if you only knew how much I’ve got to do! Why, I can’t sleep nights thinking of it!” So there it is again. And how is my theory to work in Tweenit, if boys must go away from home for their amusements, because mothers cannot even steal time to give them? And how is it to work in other places, and among other classes? I have a cousin living in Elmbridge. She keeps help. I made a little visit there recently, one object of which was to learn whether she does or does not give to her children the leisure thus obtained. She does not. She gives it to extras in the way of cooking, extras in the way of house-adornments, extras in the way of dress. By way of test, I took my book with me, and presented it with remarks like those addressed to Mrs. Melendy on a similar occasion. Her answer was almost identical with that of Mrs. Melendy: “Oh, you don’t know how much I have to do!” And I did not know. I could form no idea of the labor of flouncing that “suit.” It had already, she assured me, taken one week’s sitting-down time. My theory would not work at Cousin Sallie’s. Well, now, thought I, just for the curiosity of the thing, let me try what are called the highest circles. There is one family in the highest circles, the Manchesters, with whom I am on visiting terms. They live in the city. They keep a cook, chambermaid, parlor-girl, nursery-maid, and usually a seamstress. As far as work is concerned, Mrs. Manchester’s life is one prolonged state of leisure. Does she give this leisure to her children? She does not: she gives it to society. I thought I would try the “book” in her case, and did so, scarcely able to conceal a smile, as I thought how little she imagined that an experiment was being made upon her for the benefit of domestic science. I said a few words, as on the two former occasions, perhaps enlarging rather more on the desirableness of mothers giving their children more of themselves. But now came in society.