ravely tried. The child spends most
of her time in the library, devouring all the books she can lay her hands
on. Little Ruth is a round, soft, fluffy baby, all dimples and smiles and
good-nature, willing to roll or crawl into anybody's lap or affections. A
very good baby to exhibit, for strangers delight in her, and pet her just
as people always have petted Flossy. Rachel stands mutely watching all
such demonstrations, her pale face rigid with some emotion, and her eyes
brilliant and hard. She is not a child one would dare take liberties with.
No one ever pets her. Flossy complains continually of her to visitors and
to Bronson, so that Bronson has gotten into the way of reproving her
mechanically whenever his eye rests upon her. Her very presence, always
silent, always inwardly critical, seems to irritate her parents. She was
not doing a thing, but sitting sedately, with a heavy book on her lap,
watching the baby, with that curious expression on her face; but Flossy
couldn't let her alone.

"Baby loves her mother, doesn't she? She is not like naughty sister
Rachel, who won't do anything but read, and never loves anybody but
herself. Sister says bad things to poor sick mamma, and mamma can't love
her, can she? But mamma loves her pretty, sweet baby, so she does."

Rachel glanced at me with a hunted look in her eyes which wrung my heart.
But, before I could think, she slid down and the big book fell with a
crash to the floor. She ran towards the baby with a wicked look on her
small face, and the baby leaped and held out its hands, but Rachel
clenched her teeth, and slapped the outstretched hand as she rushed past
her and out of the room.

Poor little Ruth looked at the red place on her hand a minute, then her
lip quivered, and she began to cry pitifully.

I instinctively looked to see Flossy gather her up to comfort her. It is
so easy to dry a child's tears with a little love. But she rang for the
nurse and fretfully exclaimed,

"Isn't that just like her! I declare I can't see why a child of mine
should have such a wicked temper. Here, Simpson, take this young nuisance
and stop her crying. Oh, poor little me! Ruth, I'm thankful that you have
no children to wear your life out."

I dryly remarked that I too considered it rather a cause for gratitude,
and came away.

Poor little Rachel Herrick! Unlovely as her action was, I cannot help
thinking that it was unpremeditated; that it was the unexpected result of
some st