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THE AUTHOR'S DAUGHTER.
ing that these might be fine manners, but they were not gracious manners, for the lady looked at her as if she was an intruder in her own house.
"He is greatly changed from when I saw him," said Mr. Hammond.
"Yes, changed, no doubt," said Mrs. Hammond. "These sudden accidents, I suppose, do change people." She looked a him attentively, and then turned to the child and gave a slight involuntary start when she met the beseeching expression of the sad eyes. "How like," said she, half aloud, "what a likeness!"
"I do no see any likeness at all," said Mr. Hammond. "My dear," continued he, taking Amy's hand kindly, "we are very sorry, very sorry indeed. But you know that your poor papa has gone where there is neither trouble, nor pain, nor sickness, and you must try to be comforted. And your mamma is dead, too?" and he looked at her black frock.
"Yes, a year ago," sobbed the child. "And now I have nobody, nobody. Oh! I cannot live to bear it."
"Yes, my dear, you must live, and there are happy days for you yet. You must come home with us. You know our house was the house your papa was taking you to."