But in
my father's dressing-room there hung a water-colour sketch of his
young wife, with me--her first baby--on her lap. It was a very happy
portrait. The little one was nestled in her arms, and she herself was
just looking up with a bright smile of happiness and pride. That look
came full at the spectator, and perhaps it was because it was so very
lifelike that I had (ever since I could remember) indulged a curious
freak of childish sentiment by nodding to the picture and saying,
"Good-morning, mamma," whenever I came into the room. Such little
superstitions become part of one's life, and I freely confess that I
salute that portrait still! I remember, too, that as time went on I
lost sight of the fact that it was I who lay on my mother's lap, and
always regarded the two as Mamma and Sister Alice--that ever-baby
sister whom I had once kissed, and no more. I generally saw them at
least once a day, for it was my privilege to play in my father's
dressing-room during part of his toilet, and we had a stereotyped
joke between us in reference to his shaving, which always ended in my
receiving a piece of the creamy lather on the tip of my nose.
But it was one evening when the shadow hanging over the household was
deepest upon me, that I slipped unobserved out of the drawing-room
where Miss Burton was "performing" on my mother's piano, and crept
slowly and sadly upstairs.
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