Page:Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Vol2.djvu/204

194 and do not want you to think about them.

I make broth for the poor man who is sick. A sick man is like a child, he cannot help himself.

WHEN I caught cold some time ago, I had such a pain in my head, I could scarcely hold it up. Papa opened the door very softly, because he loves me. You love me, yet you made a noise. You had not the sense to know that it made my head worse, till papa told you.

Papa had a pain in the stomach, and he would not eat the fine cherries or grapes on the table. When I brought him a cup of camomile tea, he drank it without saying a word, or making an