ikely to
be convenient for them ever to live together again. I wish, now, I'd
insisted on it, and married Mammy to somebody else; but I was foolish
and indulgent, and didn't want to insist. I told Mammy, at the time,
that she mustn't ever expect to see him more than once or twice in her
life again, for the air of father's place doesn't agree with my health,
and I can't go there; and I advised her to take up with somebody else;
but no--she wouldn't. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots,
that everybody don't see as I do."

"Has she children?" said Miss Ophelia.

"Yes; she has two."

"I suppose she feels the separation from them?"

"Well, of course, I couldn't bring them. They were little dirty
things--I couldn't have them about; and, besides, they took up too
much of her time; but I believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort of
sulkiness about this. She won't marry anybody else; and I do believe,
now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my
health is, she would go back to her husband tomorrow, if she only could.
I _do_, indeed," said Marie; "they are just so selfish, now, the best of
them."

"It's distressing to reflect upon," said St. Clare, dryly.

Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of mortification
and repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl of the lip, as he spoke.

"Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me," said Marie. "I wish some of
your northern servants could look at her closets of dresses,--silks and
muslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging there. I've worked
sometimes whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her ready
to go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She never was
whipped more than once or twice in her whole life. She has her strong
coffee or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It's abominable, to
be sure; but St. Clare will have high life below-stairs, and they every
one of them live just as they please. The fact is, our servants are
over-indulged. I suppose it is partly our fault that they are selfish,
and act like spoiled children; but I've talked to St. Clare till I am
tired."

"And I, too," said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper.

Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother, with that
expression of deep and mystic earnestness which was peculiar to her. She
walked softly round to her mother's chair, and put her arms round her
neck.

"Well, Eva, what now?" said Marie