Phoebe, he would draw out all the fire and pain!"

"But, my lady, he is not your son!" said the maid, with tears of alarm
starting in her eyes.

"He is, girl! Now that his mother is dead he is mine! Who has a better
right to him than I, I wonder? His mother is gone! his father--" Here
the countess suddenly recollected herself, and as she looked into her
maid's astonished face she felt how far apart were the ideas of the
Jewish matron and the Christian maiden. She controlled her emotion, took
her seat, and said:

"Don't be alarmed, Phoebe. I am only a little nervous to-night, my
girl. And I want something more satisfactory than a little dog to pet."

"I don't think, my lady, you could get anything in the world more
grateful, or more faithful, or more easy to manage, than a little dog.
Certainly not a baby. Babies is awful, my lady. They aint got a bit of
gratitude or faithfulness in them; and after you have toted them about
all day, you may tote them about all night. And then they are bawling
from the first day of January until the thirty-first day of December.
Take my advice, my lady, and stick to the little dogs, and let babies
alone, if you love your peace."

The countess smiled faintly and kept silence. But--she kept her
resolution also.

The last words that night spoken after she was in bed, and when she was
about to dismiss her maid, were these: