the bosom that it knew. I smiled politely, like any other stranger,
at Emma's deprecations, and sat impassive, looking at my alleged
baby breaking her heart at the sight of her mother. It is not
amusing even now to remember the anger that I felt. I did not touch
her or speak to her; I simply sat observing my alien possession, in
the frock I had not made and the sash I had not chosen, being coaxed
and kissed and protected and petted by its Aunt Emma. Presently I
asked to be taken to my room, and there I locked myself in for two
atrocious hours. Just once my heart beat high, when a tiny knock
came and a timid, docile little voice said that tea was ready. But
I heard the rustle of a skirt, and guessed the directing angel in
Aunt Emma, and responded, 'Thank you, dear, run away and say that I
am coming,' with a pleasant visitor's inflection which I was able to
sustain for the rest of afternoon.

'She goes to bed at seven,' said Emma.

'Oh, does she?' said I. 'A very good hour, I should think.'

'She sleeps in my room,' said Mrs. Farnham.

'We give her mutton broth very often, but seldom stock soup,' said
Aunt Emma. 'Mamma thinks it is too stimulating.'

'Indeed?' said I, to all of it.

They took me up to see her in her crib, and pointed out, as she lay
asleep, that though she had 'a general look' of me, her features
were distinctively Farnham.