“There were once upon a time two little motherless girls.”

No. 6’s excitement of expectation was hardly over, so she tightened her hand over Aunt Judy’s, and ejaculated:-

“Poor little things!”

“You may well say so,” continued Aunt Judy.  “It was just what everybody said who saw them at the time.  When they went about with their widowed father in the country village where ’they lived, even the poor women who stood at their cottage door-steads, would look after them when they had passed, and say with a sigh:-

“‘Poor little things!’

“When they went up to London in the winter to stay with their grandmamma, and walked about in the Square in their little black frocks and crape-trimmed bonnets, the ladies who saw them,—­even comparative strangers,—­would turn round arid say:-

“‘Poor little things!’

“If visitors came to call at the house, and the children were sent for into the room, there was sure to be a whispered exclamation directly among the grown-up people of, ‘Poor little things!’ But oh, No. 6! the children themselves did not think about it at all.  What did they know,—­poor little things,—­of the real misfortune which had befallen them!  They were sorry, of course, at first, when they did not see their mamma as usual, and when she did not come back to them as soon as they expected.  But some separation had taken place during her illness; and sometimes before, she had been poorly and got well again; and sometimes she had gone out visiting, and they had had to do without her till she returned; and so, although the days and weeks of her absence went on to months, still it was only the same thing they had felt before, continued rather longer; and meantime the little events of each day rose up to distract their attention.  They got up, and dined, and went to bed as usual.  They were sometimes merry, sometimes naughty, as usual.  People made them nice presents, or sent for them to pleasant treats, as usual—­perhaps more than usual; their father did all he could to supply the place of the lost one, but never could name her name; and soon they forgot that they had ever had a mamma at all.  Soon?  Ay, long before friends and strangers lead left off saying ‘Poor little things’ at sight of them, and long before the black frocks and crape-trimmed bonnets were laid aside, which, indeed, they wore double the usual length of time.”

“And how old were they?” asked No. 6, in a whisper.

“Four and five,” replied Aunt Judy; “old enough to know what they liked and disliked from hour to hour.  Old enough to miss what had pleased them, till something else pleased them as well.  But not old enough to look forward and know how much a mother is wanted in life; and, therefore, what a terrible loss the loss of a mother is.”

“It’s a very sad story I’m afraid,” remarked No. 6.