She heard from the old lady that her name was Bolland, and that she and her husband had lived in London for fifty years, only going away from it sometimes for change of air. Mr. Bolland had been once an artist himself, but rheumatism had crippled his hands and limbs so badly that for some years he had not been able to touch a paint brush.
"And where is your little girl?" Christina asked. "The little girl something like me?"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Bolland with a sigh. "She's in Heaven; she died when she was twelve years old. I've often thought that if she had lived, she would have brightened our life now, wouldn't she, Ted? Show the little girl your picture of her. She'd like to see our Minnie."
Mr. Bolland left the room and returned with a large picture under his arm. It was a pretty portrait: a little girl in white muslin frock with a string of coral beads round her neck. Christina gazed at it admiringly.
"Yes," said Mr. Bolland, looking at her earnestly, "you've the same eyes, my dear, and you say the things Minnie used to say. Why when she lay dying she looked up at me, 'Father, I'm sorry to leave you, but so glad to go to Jesus,' she said."
He turned away and cleared his throat. Mrs. Bolland took hold of Christina's hand.
"Will you come and see us another day?" she asked gently. "Do you think you would be allowed to? We are very lonely old people, and it is such a treat to hear a little child's voice."
"I'll ask father, and perhaps I could bring Puggy and Dawn with me."
"Are they your dogs?"
Christina laughed merrily.