idence to the cunning of the child matched that
of the mother. A child is a diplomatist, only to be mastered, like the
diplomatists of the great world, through his passions! Happily, it takes
little to make these cherubs laugh; the fall of a brush, a piece of soap
slipping from the hand, and what merry shouts! And if our triumphs are
dearly bought, still triumphs they are, though hidden from mortal
eye. Even the father knows nothing of it all. None but God and His
angels--and perhaps you--can fathom the glances of satisfaction which
Mary and I exchange when the little creatures' toilet is at last
concluded, and they stand, spotless and shining, amid a chaos of soap,
sponges, combs, basins, blotting-paper, flannel, and all the nameless
litter of a true English "nursery."

For I am so far a convert as to admit that English women have a talent
for this department. True, they look upon the child only from the point
of view of material well-being; but where this is concerned, their
arrangements are admirable. My children must always be bare-legged and
wear woollen socks. There shall be no swaddling nor bandages; on the
other hand, they shall never be left alone. The helplessness of
the French infant in its swaddling-bands means the liberty of the
nurse--that is the whole explanation. A mother, who is really a mother,
is never free.

There is my answer to your question why I do not write. Besides the
management of the estate, I have the upbringing of two children on my
hands.

The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial,
an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute. The soup warming
before the fire must be watched. Am I the kind of woman, do you suppose,
to shirk such cares? The humblest task may earn a rich harvest of
affection. How pretty is a child's laugh when he finds the food to his
liking! Armand has a way of nodding his head when he is pleased that
is worth a lifetime of adoration. How could I leave to any one else the
privilege and delight, as well as the responsibility, of blowing on the
spoonful of soup which is too hot for my little Nais, my nursling
of seven months ago, who still remembers my breast? When a nurse has
allowed a child to burn its tongue and lips with scalding food, she
tells the mother, who hurries up to see what is wrong, that the child
cried from hunger. How could a mother sleep in peace with the thought
that a breath, less pure than her own, has cooled her child