I used to sit for hours and think of how sweet and lovely you were in infancy; how your little rosy fingers used to play with and pull my long mustache--which was black then, my dear--when I leaned over to kiss you in your cradle--recalling all your pretty, engaging little baby tricks, remembering how fond and proud I was of you, and grieving over the loss that I seemed to feel more and more acutely as the years went on.

The birth of my son only made me long still more intensely for you, instead of consoling me for your loss, or banishing you from my memory, and when I saw him decked with rich laces and ribbons, like a royal babe, and playing with his jewelled rattle, I would think with an aching heart that perhaps at that very moment my dear little daughter was suffering from cold and hunger, or the unkind treatment of those who had her in charge.

Then I regretted deeply that I had not taken you away from your mother in the very beginning, and had you brought up as my daughter should be--but when you were born I did not dream of our parting.

As years rolled on new anxieties tortured me.

I knew that you would be beautiful, and how much you would have to suffer from the dissolute men who hover about all young and pretty actresses--my blood would boil as I thought of the insults and affronts to which you might be subjected, and from which I was powerless to shield you--no words can tell what I suffered.