But, as that year wore on, Dora was not strong. I had hoped that lighter hands than mine would help to mould her character, and that a baby-smile upon her breast might change my child-wife to a woman. It was not to be. The spirit fluttered for a moment on the threshold of its little prison, and, unconscious of captivity, took wing.
“When I can run about again, as I used to do, aunt,” said Dora, “I shall make Jip race. He is getting quite slow and lazy.”
“I suspect, my dear,” said my aunt quietly working by her side, “he has a worse disorder than that. Age, Dora.”
“Do you think he is old?” said Dora, astonished. “Oh, how strange it seems that Jip should be old!”
“It’s a complaint we are all liable to, Little One, as we get on in life,” said my aunt, cheerfully; “I don’t feel more free from it than I used to be, I assure you.”
“But Jip,” said Dora, looking at him with compassion, “even little Jip! Oh,