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“Augustine, you know I didn’t think of it in that light,” said Miss Ophelia, evi- dently softening. “Well, it might be a real missionary work,” said she, looking rather more favorably on the child. St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia’s conscientiousness was ever on the alert. “But,” she added, “I really didn’t see the need of buying this one;- there are enough now, in your house, to take all my time and skill.” “Well, then, cousin,” said St. Clare, drawing her aside, “I ought to beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing speeches. You are so good, after all, that there’s no sense in them. Why, the fact is, this concern belonged to a couple of drunken creatures that keep a low restaurant that I have to pass by every day, and I was tired of hearing her screaming, and them beating and swearing at her. She looked bright and funny, too, as if something, might be made of her;- so I bought her, and I’ll give her to you. Try, now, and give her a good orthodox New England bring- ing up, and see what it’ll make of her. You know I haven’t any gift that way; but I’d like you to try.” “Well, I’ll do what I can,” said Miss Ophelia; and she approached her new subject very much as a person might be supposed to approach a black spider, sup- posing them to have benevolent designs toward it. “She’s dreadfully dirty, and half naked,” she said. “Well, take her downstairs, and make some of them clean and clothe her up.” Miss Ophelia carried her to the kitchen regions. |