"Wouldn't you rather go to bed, dear? The men will want to talk about battles, and things, not best for little girls to hear. When you are older they will interest you more."
"Yes," she replied, and kissed grandfather. Then her mother undressed her and tucked her in her little pallet.
"Oh, you will always love me?" she cried, in a tremulous tone.
"Always, always. And father, too." Even if other children should come, the years when Daffodil had been her all could never be dimmed.
The mother shut the door softly. They were kindly enough, this conglomerate population, but rough, and the French strain in the Bradins had tended to refinement, as well as living somewhat to themselves.
Daffodil cried a little, it seemed a comfort. But she was tired and soon fell asleep, never hearing a sound, and the company was rather noisy. When she woke, the door to the living room was partly open, and the yellow candlelight was shining through. Mornings were dark, for they had come to the shortest days. There was a curious rustling sound, and Dilly ran out in her little bare feet, though the carpet was thick and warm. Gran'mere was cooking, Barbe was washing dishes, Judy sat by the fire in a grave upright fashion. How white the windows were!
"Oh, it's snow!" cried the little girl. "Are we snowed up, as grandad tells about? Why, we can't see out!"
"Yes, it's a tremendous snow. Bring out your clothes, and let me dress you. Don't be noisy."
The child seldom was noisy. She wondered at the request. And what had happened? She had a confused sense of something unusual in her mind.
"Father is asleep. It was late when he went to bed last night, and he is so tired out that we shall let him sleep as long as he will. Get your clothes, and shut the door softly."