For a moment Faith looked at her in amazement, and then she knelt down beside the big chair and began patting the shoulder under the ragged shawl.
“Don’t cry, Louise. Don’t cry. Listen, I’ll ask my aunt to make you a cap just like mine. I know she will.”
“No. She wouldn’t want me to have a cap like yours,” declared Louise.
“Isn’t your father good to you?” questioned Faith. And this question made Louise sit up straight and wipe her eyes on the corner of the old shawl.
“Good to me! Of course he is. Didn’t he make me these fine shoes?” she answered, pointing to her feet. “But how could he make me a pretty cap or a dress? And he doesn’t want to ask anybody. But you needn’t think he ain’t good to me!” she concluded, reaching after the crutch.
“Don’t go yet, Louise. See, that’s my doll over on the sofa. Her name is ‘Lady Amy,’” and Faith ran to the sofa and brought back her beloved doll and set it down in Louise’s lap.
“I never touched a doll before,” said Louise, almost in a whisper. “You’re real good to let me hold her. Are you going to live here?”
“I’m going to school,” replied Faith. “I’ve never been to school.”
“Neither have I,” said Louise. “I s’pose you know your letters, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Of course I do. I can read and write, and do fractions,” answered Faith.