"Was he fair or dark?" went on that absurd little Emmy. "Show me his hair."
Becky almost laughed at her simplicity. "Not to-day, love--some other time, when my trunks arrive from Leipzig, whence I came to this place--and a little drawing of him, which I made in happy days."
"Poor Becky, poor Becky!" said Emmy. "How thankful, how thankful I ought to be"; (though I doubt whether that practice of piety inculcated upon us by our womankind in early youth, namely, to be thankful because we are better off than somebody else, be a very rational religious exercise) and then she began to think, as usual, how her son was the handsomest, the best, and the cleverest boy in the whole world.
"You will see my Georgy," was the best thing Emmy could think of to console Becky. If anything could make her comfortable that would.

"Was he fair or dark?" went on that absurd little Emmy. "Show me his hair."
Becky almost laughed. "Not today, love - some other time, when my trunks arrive."
"Poor Becky!" said Emmy. "How thankful I ought to be." She began to think, as usual, how her son was the handsomest and cleverest boy in the world. "You will see my Georgy," was the best thing she could think of to console Becky.
