Little Mary never told tales of her sister, though her mother was sometimes angry that she had not finished her task of knitting; and she could not help it, for the baby often cried, and would not stay in the cradle, and Mary was obliged to hold it on her lap all the time her mother was away.
One morning, the good woman was making ready to go to market, and as she had a great deal to do, she said that she should not return so soon as usual. So she put some food for the baby by the fire, to keep it warm, and told Anna to be careful to feed it if it cried, and to sing it to sleep. But Anna had something to do that she liked better. So away she went, and Mary hardly knew what to do; for the baby did nothing but cry. It was crying when the naughty girl put it into the cradle, and left it, but she did not trouble her head about the matter.
Poor Mary warmed the food, and then took the child upon her lap, and fed it as well as she was able, and as she had seen her mother do. At last it became quiet, and Mary began to sing lullaby with such a sweet little voice, that it fell fast asleep.
I do not think you will be sorry to hear that Anna’s naughtiness was now discovered. Her mother had forgotten something which she was to have taken with her; so instead of staying longer than usual, she came back half an hour sooner. She was much surprised to find Mary alone with the baby. Anna was not to be found, though she called and inquired for her all round the house; but she soon heard from her neighbors that this was the way she always did. So her mother, as she was of no use to her, sent her to a farmer’s house, where she could not play any of her tricks, but was made to work very hard; and Mary, as she grew older, became every year more useful, and lived very happy with her mother and the little baby.
A gentleman of Marseilles, named Remonsat, shortly before his death, desired that his numerous family might be assembled about his bed. As he was now an old man, he had children who had been long married and who now had children of their own. There were sons and daughters who were married, and who had two daughters, and one son about nine years old, who was so much of a cripple as to be obliged to walk with a crutch. The old gentleman acknowledged the delight which his children had afforded him by their affection and attachment, and especially for the tender love which they bore to one another. “But,” continued he, “I have a secret to disclose, which will remove one of you from this circle. So long as I had any hopes of living I kept it from you, but I dare not violate your rights in the division of the property which I leave you. One of you is only an adopted child—the child of the nurse at whose breast my own child died. Shall I name that child?” “No, no,” said they with one accord, “let us all continue to be brothers and sisters.”