Oh, if I ever get out of this bed I'll be the best girl in the world, to pay for this.

See if I ain't!" and Jill gave such a decided nod that her tears flew all about the pillow like a shower.
"You'd better begin at once, for you won't get out of that bed for a long while, I'm afraid, my lamb," sighed her mother, unable to conceal the anxiety that lay so heavy on her heart.
"Am I hurt badly, Mammy ?" "I fear it, lass." "I'm _glad_ of it; I ought to be worse than Jack, and I hope I am.

I'll bear it well, and be good right away.

Sing, Mammy, and I'll try to go to sleep to please you." Jill shut her eyes with sudden and unusual meekness, and before her mother had crooned half a dozen verses of an old ballad, the little black head lay still upon the pillow, and repentant Jill was fast asleep with a red mitten in her hand.
Mrs.Pecq was an Englishwoman who had left Montreal at the death of her husband, a French Canadian, and had come to live in the tiny cottage which stood near Mrs.Minot's big house, separated only by an arbor-vitae hedge.

A sad, silent person, who had seen better days, but said nothing about them, and earned her bread by sewing, nursing, work in the factory, or anything that came in her way, being anxious to educate her little girl.