Her girlish face, pretty, notwithstanding the lines and hollows graved by sorrow, was like a mask in its impassivity.

It was as if she were saying, "You have come, but I did not ask you to do so; I do not want you.

I have all I want here, lying on my bosom." "Let me have him for a moment," begged Celia, who, young as she was, comprehended the girl's feelings.

"How sweet he looks!" she exclaimed, as she took the child and kissed it.
The mother's face twitched as she noted the kiss, and her eyes softened a little.
"He is very good," she said, as if she were speaking to herself rather than to Celia.

"He is never any trouble; he is very healthy." "He looks like a strong little cherub," said Celia, touching, with a forefinger as light as a feather, the dimple on the child's chin; "and, of course, he isn't any trouble.