She is a sickly,
fretful, unhappy, almost unbearable child. If she lives to grow up, she
will be a sickly, fretful, unhappy, unlovely woman. But her mother is just
as much responsible for the whole as if she had deranged her system by
feeding her on poisonous drugs. Yet she is a most conscientious, devoted,
and anxious mother, and, in spite of this manner, a loving one. She does
not know that there is any better way than hers. She does not see that her
child is mortified and harmed when she says to her, in the presence of
strangers, "How do you suppose you _look_ with your mouth open like that?"
"Do you want me to show you how you are sitting?"--and then a grotesque
imitation of her stooping shoulders. "_Will_ you sit still for one
minute?" "_Do_ take your hands off my dress." "Was there ever such an
awkward child?" When the child replies fretfully and disagreeably, she
does not see that it is only an exact reflection of her own voice and
manners. She does not understand any of the things that would make for her
own peace, as well as for the child's.
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