fire, and the Bible was the book generally preferred by both; and
then when she grew weary of reading, she would often take a stool,
and sitting down close to Chloe, put her head in her lap, saying,
"Now, mammy, tell me about mamma."

And then for the hundredth time or more the old woman would go
over the story of the life and death of her "dear young missus,"
as she always called her; telling of her beauty, her goodness, and
of her sorrows and sufferings during the last year of her short
life.

It was a story which never lost its charm for Elsie; a story which
the one never wearied of telling, nor the other of hearing. Elsie
would sit listening, with her mother's miniature in her hand,
gazing at it with tearful eyes, then press it to her lips,
murmuring, "My own mamma; poor, dear mamma." And when Chloe had
finished that story she would usually say, "Now, mammy, tell me
all about papa."

But upon this subject Chloe had very little information to give.
She knew him only as a gay, handsome young stranger, whom she had
seen occasionally during a few months, and who had stolen all the
sunshine from her beloved young mistress' life, and left her to
die alone; yet she did not blame him when speaking to his child,
for the young wife had told her that he had not forsaken her of
his own free choice; and though she could not quite banish from
her own mind the idea that he had not been altogether innocent in
the matter, she breathed no hint of it to Elsie; for Chloe was a
sensible woman, and knew that to lead the little one to think ill
of her only remaining parent would but tend to make her unhappy.