Mrs. L'Oiseau was devouring the contents of a letter, which ran thus:
"MARY, MY DEAR! I feel as if I had somewhat neglected you, but, the truth
is, my arm is not long enough to stretch from Luckenough to Old Fields.
That being the case, and myself and Old Hen being rather lonesome since
Edith's ungrateful desertion, we beg you to take little Jacko, and come
live with us as long as we may live--and of what may come after that we
will talk at some time. If you will be ready I will send the carriage for
you on Saturday.
"YOUR UNCLE NICK."
Mrs. L'Oiseau read this letter with a changing cheek--when she finished
it she folded and laid it aside in silence.
Then she called to her side her child--her Jacquelina--her Sans
Souci--as for her gay, thoughtless temper she was called. I should here
describe the mother and daughter to you. The mother needs little
description--a pale, black-haired, black-eyed woman, who should have
been blooming and sprightly, but that care had damped her spirits, and
cankered the roses in her cheeks.
But Jacquelina--Sans Souci--merits a better portrait. She was small
and slight for her years, and, though really near nine, would have
been taken for six or seven. She was fair-skinned, blue-eyed and
golden-haired.
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