"Very much: it vexes me even. People say you are miserly; and yet you are not, for you give liberally to the poor and to religious societies: though your gifts are conveyed so secretly and quietly, that they are known to few except the receivers. But I will be your lady's-maid myself: when I get a little stronger I will set to work, and you must be good, mama, and do as I bid you."
And Caroline, sitting near her mother, rearranged her muslin handkerchief, and resmoothed her hair.
"My own mama," then she went on, as if pleasing herself with the thought of their relationship, "who belongs to me, and to whom I belong! I am a rich girl now: I have something I can love well, and not be afraid of loving. Mama, who gave you this little broach? Let me unpin it and look at it."
Mrs. Pryor, who usually shrank from meddling fingers and near approach, allowed the license complacently.
"Did papa give you this, mama?"
"My sister gave it me,—my only sister, Cary. Would that your aunt Caroline had lived to see her niece!"
"Have you nothing of papa's?—no trinket, no gift of his?"
"I have one thing."
"That you prize?"
"That I prize."
"Valuable and pretty?"
"Invaluable and sweet to me."
