"And you—must you be mother to all the children? Am I never to have you any more?"
"You have me now. Yes, you will always have me. Don't you remember you used to wish for a sister like Sallie Reed? Her mother loved all the children."
"But she had them when they were cunning little babies," was the decisive reply.
"Dear,"—her mother knelt down and put her arms around the child,—"it is this way. We have come to this lovely home which is to be ours, and all the pleasant things a good friend can give—a kindly, generous friend. I used to feel anxious and worried about your future. There was no good school. The life was very narrow. And if I had been taken away—"
"But they never would let the Indians take you. Oh, mother dear!" with a fervent embrace. She had not meant that, but she would not give the other explanation.
"And all these children are going to share their father's love with you. He will give you this beautiful home, clothe you, educate you, and he puts me in the place of their dear mother who is dead. He is going to care for me and keep me from toil and sorrows and perplexities. When you are older you will understand better. I hope you will try to love them all, and this good dear friend who will be a father to you."
"But I shall love you the best."
"Yes, dear," with a proud certainty.
"And you will love me better than anyone else?" and Annis clasped her mother with a child's unreasoning exclusiveness.
"Yes, dear."