"
"It was my mamma!" exclaimed the child, springing up, and clasping her
around the neck.
"And the child's heart," said Polly, drawing her to her breast, "the
little daughter's heart was so full of the truth of this, that even when
she heard it from a strange nurse that couldn't tell it right, but was a
poor mother herself, and that was all, she found a comfort in it--didn't
feel so lonely--sobbed and cried upon her bosom--took kindly to the baby
lying in her lap--and--there, there, there!" said Polly, smoothing the
child's curls, and dropping tears upon her. "There, poor dear!"
"Oh, well, Miss Floy! and won't your pa be angry neither?" cried a quick
voice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown womanly girl of
fourteen, with little snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads, "when it
was tickerlerly given out that you wasn't to go and worrit the nurse."
"She don't worry me," was the surprised rejoinder of Polly. "I'm very
fond of children. Miss Florence has just come home, hasn't she?"
"Yes, Mrs. Richards, and here, Miss Floy, before you've been in the
house a quarter of an hour, you go a-smearing your wet face against the
expensive mourning that Mrs. Richards is a-wearing for your ma!" With
this remonstrance, young Spitfire, whose real name was Susan Nipper,
detached the child from her new friend by a wrench--as if she were a
tooth. But she seemed to do it more in the sharp exercise of her
official functions, than with any deliberate unkindness.
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