Her sweetest pleasures only came to
her by snatches. Most likely she envied humble mothers, and did not pity
them because their arms ached with carrying a heavy infant, aching limbs
being more bearable than an aching heart.
A flight of broad, handsomely-carpeted stairs brought us to a long
shut-in corridor, fitted up prettily with plants and statuettes. A
rocking-horse stood in one corner; the nursery door was open. It was a
long, cheerful room, with three windows, looking over the public garden,
and fitted up with a degree of comfort that bordered on luxury. Some
canaries were singing in a green cage, a grey Persian kitten was curled
up in the doll's bassinette, a little girl was kneeling on the cushioned
window-seat, peeping between the bars at some children who were playing
below. As Mrs. Morton said, softly, "Joyce, darling," she turned round
with quite a startled air, and then clambered down hastily and ran to
her mother.
"Why, it is my mother," in quite an incredulous voice, and then she
caught hold of her mother's gown, and peeped at me from between the
folds.
She was a pretty, demure-looking child, only somewhat thin and fragile
in appearance, not in the least like her mother, but I could trace
instantly the strongest resemblance to her father.
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