said St. Clare. "You know 't is n't so. There's Mammy, the best creature living,—what could you do without her?"
"Mammy is the best I ever knew," said Marie; "and yet Mammy, now, is selfish—dreadfully selfish; it's the fault of the whole race."
"Selfishness is a dreadful fault," said St. Clare, gravely.
"Well, now, there's Mammy," said Marie, "I think it's selfish of her to sleep so sound nights; she knows I need little attentions almost every hour, when my worst turns are on, and yet she's so hard to wake. I absolutely am worse, this very morning, for the efforts I had to make to wake her last night."
"Has n't she sat up with you a good many nights, lately, mamma?" said Eva.
"How should you know that?" said Marie, sharply; "she's been complaining, I suppose."
"She did n't complain; she only told me what bad nights you'd had,—so many in succession."
"Why don't you let Jane or Rosa take her place, a night or two," said St. Clare, "and let her rest?"
"How can you propose it?" said Marie. "St. Clare, you really are inconsiderate. So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me; and a strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt the interest in me she ought to, she'd wake easier,—of course, she would. I've heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never was my luck;" and Marie sighed.
Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air of shrewd, observant gravity; and she still kept her lips tightly compressed, as if determined fully to ascertain her longitude and position, before she committed herself.
"Now, Mammy has a sort of goodness," said Marie;
