"Posie!" she exclaimed, and the child sprang into her arms.
"Posie and I have been making friends," observed Mildred.
"Posie's a dear," said the other. "She's all I have,—me and Joe,—and sometimes I don't hardly know how to bear to let her go out of my sight. I don't know whatever we'd do if anything was to happen to her, that I don't."
"One never does know—till it comes," murmured Mildred. "I have just been to the grave of my little one,—no, not my own, but my brother's child. They were drowned in the wreck."
"Yes, I know—I was sure!" and the woman looked with kind full eyes at Mildred. "It must be so dreadful to lose anybody that way. I've lost a little one of my own; not by drowning, but she died of fever. I almost thought at first I must have died too."
"The other little Posie, you mean. I saw her grave."
"Some folks didn't like us naming Posie after her. They said maybe Posie 'ud die too. But I didn't see it, nor I don't. Posie's all we've got left,—me and Joe,—and God won't take her from us. Surely He won't."
"Not unless it was needful for Posie's own good. If it was better for Posie to go, He wouldn't leave her on earth for anybody's sake, I suppose—it wouldn't be kind to do it; and if you love her, you couldn't really wish it either. But it wouldn't be because her name is Posie—that's certain."
"Then you don't mind—you don't think it was wrong of us to call her Posie?" The woman looked anxiously for an answer.
Mildred considered, leaning on the gate. "No, I don't know that I should call it wrong," she said. "I wouldn't do it myself, though."