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“Am I ‘poor,’ mamma?”

“At this moment I feel that you are very poor indeed, my baby,” answered the lady.

Josephine glanced about the familiar room, in which nothing seemed changed except her mother’s face. That had suddenly grown pale and sad, and even wrinkled, for there was a deep, deep crease between its brows.

“That’s funny. Where are my rags?” asked the child.

Mamma smiled; but the doctor laughed outright, and said:

“There is more than one way of being poor, little missy. Come and show me your arm.”

Josephine shivered as she obeyed. However, there was nothing to fear now, for the arm was well healed, and the gentleman patted it approvingly, adding:

“You are a good little girl, Josephine.”

“Yes, Doctor Mack, I try to be.”

“Yet you don’t love me, do you?”

“Not—not so—so very much,” answered the truthful child, painfully conscious of her own rudeness.

“Not so well as Rudanthy,” he persisted.

“Oh, nothing like!”

“Josephine,” reproved mamma; then caught her daughter in her arms, and began to lament over her. “My darling! my darling! How can I part from you?”