I have now in my pocket a letter from your sister Cecilia, received this morning--received three months after her marriage, poor child!--in which she tells me that her husband must unexpectedly shelter under their roof his reduced aunt.

"But I will be true to him, mamma," she touchingly writes, "I will not leave him, I must not forget that he is my husband.

Let his aunt come!" If this is not pathetic, if this is not woman's devotion--!' The good lady waved her gloves in a sense of the impossibility of saying more, and tied the pocket-handkerchief over her head in a tighter knot under her chin.
Bella, who was now seated on the rug to warm herself, with her brown eyes on the fire and a handful of her brown curls in her mouth, laughed at this, and then pouted and half cried.
'I am sure,' said she, 'though you have no feeling for me, pa, I am one of the most unfortunate girls that ever lived.

You know how poor we are' (it is probable he did, having some reason to know it!), 'and what a glimpse of wealth I had, and how it melted away, and how I am here in this ridiculous mourning--which I hate!--a kind of a widow who never was married.

And yet you don't feel for me .-- Yes you do, yes you do.' This abrupt change was occasioned by her father's face.