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“I don’t know, I’m sure, except for a plague; they are the plague of my life. I believe that more of my ill heath is caused by them than by any one thing; and ours, I know, are the very worst that ever anybody was plagued with.” “O, come, Marie, you’ve got the blues this morning,” said St. Clare. “You know ‘tisn’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 self- ish- 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.” “Hasn’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 didn’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?” |