"Good-morning, Miss Featherstone;" and she devoured the curly-headed
boy with kisses. Mrs. Pinckney, reclining on large pillows, looked
prettier than ever. No degree of negligence affected her appearance:
her light, curling, slightly-dishevelled hair and delicate, clear skin
were the more attractive under conditions which would be fatal to many
women. "Sit down, Miss Featherstone.--Adele!" calling to the nurse,
"you must take dear little Harry away: I want to talk to Miss
Featherstone. Be very careful of him: don't let him eat or over-fatigue
himself. And, Adele, after lunch come and help me dress: I think I
should feel better for a drive.--Don't you think I should feel better
for a drive, Miss Featherstone? I'm in miserable health," she added as
the door closed on the nurse and child, "I've had so much trouble. I've
lost my husband--he died of consumption"--she seized her
pocket-handkerchief and began to cry: "I was alone, except for
servants, with him at St. Augustine. I think his family were very
inconsiderate. I wrote letter after letter, telling them of his
condition and begging and imploring them to come to my assistance; but
no one came. I had just left him for a few hours to get a little
rest--I was so worn out with anxiety and the responsibility--and he
died--alone--with his nurse--" Sobs choked her voice.
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