.

"Mamma, couldn't I take care of you one night--just one? I know I
shouldn't make you nervous, and I shouldn't sleep. I often lie awake
nights, thinking--"

"O, nonsense, child--nonsense!" said Marie; "you are such a strange
child!"

"But may I, mamma? I think," she said, timidly, "that Mammy isn't well.
She told me her head ached all the time, lately."

"O, that's just one of Mammy's fidgets! Mammy is just like all the rest
of them--makes such a fuss about every little headache or finger-ache;
it'll never do to encourage it--never! I'm principled about this
matter," said she, turning to Miss Ophelia; "you'll find the necessity
of it. If you encourage servants in giving way to every little
disagreeable feeling, and complaining of every little ailment, you'll
have your hands full. I never complain myself--nobody knows what I
endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do."

Miss Ophelia's round eyes expressed an undisguised amazement at this
peroration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely ludicrous, that he
burst into a loud laugh.

"St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my ill
health," said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr. "I only
hope the day won't come when he'll remember it!" and Marie put her
handkerchief to her eyes.

Of course, there was rather a foolish silence. Finally, St. Clare got
up, looked at his watch, and said he had an engagement down street. Eva
tripped away after him, and Miss Ophelia and Marie remained at the table
alone.

"Now, that's just like St. Clare!" said the latter, withdrawing her
handkerchief with somewhat of a spirited flourish when the criminal to
be affected by it was no longer in sight. "He never realizes, never
can, never will, what I suffer, and have, for years. If I was one of the
complaining sort, or ever made any fuss about my ailments, there would
be some reason for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining
wife. But I've kept things to myself, and borne, and borne, till St.
Clare has got in the way of thinking I can bear anything."

Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected to answer to
this.

While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped away her
tears, and smoothed her plumage in a general sort of way, as a dove
might be supposed to make toilet after a shower, and began a housewifely
chat with Miss Ophelia, concerning cupboards, closets, linen-presses,
store-rooms, and other matters, of w