"Ah! che la morte ognora."

But even a morning paper is not universally interesting, and in the very
middle of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and Edwin Booth, the parlor
door partially opened, and a lovelier picture than ever Tom Duffan
painted stood in the aperture--a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morning
gown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect cloud of wavy black hair
falling around her.

"Mamma, if anything on earth can interest you that is not in a
newspaper, I should like to know whether crimps or curls are most
becoming with my new seal-skin set."

"Ask papa."

"If I was a picture, of course papa would know; but seeing I am only a
poor live girl, it does not interest him."

"Because, Kitty, you never will dress artistically."

"Because, papa, I must dress fashionably. It is not my fault if artists
don't know the fashions. Can't I have mamma for about half an hour?"

"When she has finished this criticism of Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; it
will do you good to hear it."

"Thank you, no, papa; I am going to Booth's myself to-night, and I
prefer to do my own criticism." Then Kitty disappeared, Mrs. Duffan
skipped a good deal of criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! che la
morte ognora" much quicker than the column of printed matter warranted.