“Yes, but I never will again—no, never in the world; for, do you think, she began to cry like any thing the moment I put my arms round her neck and said ‘Mamma!’ You can’t think how she did cry, and after asking me, too.”
Mr. Clark turned away his head; the child’s earnest look troubled him.
“She knew well enough that it was all fun,” persisted the child, “and yet she kept on crying all I could do.”
“Oh, such words are bitter, bitter fun,” muttered Mr. Clark, tortured by the innocent prattle of the child.
“I did not mean any harm; the lady asked me to call her ‘Mamma,’ but I never will again,” said Myra, drooping under what seemed to her the displeasure of her best friend.
“Oh yes, Myra, you must love this lady; you must call her any thing she pleases,” said Mr. Clark, with a burst of emotion that startled the little girl. “Be good to her; be gentle and loving as if—as if it was not fun when you call her ‘Mamma.’ You will be good to her; promise me, my darling, that you will.”
“But she will not ask me again. It is a long, long time since the lady has been here,” answered the child thoughtfully. “Perhaps she will not come any more.”
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Clark, with a voice and look of painful abstraction.
A slight noise in a distant part of the garden drew the child’s attention. She started, and bending eagerly forward looked down a winding path sheltered by the orange-trees.
“See!” cried the child, pointing down the path with her finger, while her eyes sparkled like diamonds; “didn’t I say that she always came like a fairy? Didn’t I tell you so?”