“Huh! That milk's easily soured in many folks,” responded Mrs. Atterson. “But Sister's folks, whoever they be, will be sorry some day.”
“You don't suppose she really has any family, do you?” demanded Hiram.
“No father nor mother, I expect. But many a family will get rid of a young'un too small to be of any use, when they probably have many children of their own.
“And if there was a little bait of money coming to the child, as that lawyer told the institution matron, that would be another reason for losing her in this great world.”
“I'm afraid Sister will never find her folks, Mrs. Atterson,” said Hiram, shaking his head.
“Huh! If she don't, it's no loss to her. It's loss to them,” declared the old lady. “And I'd hate to have anybody come and take her away from us now.”
Sister no longer wore her short hair in four “pigtails”. She had learned to dress it neatly like other girls of her age, and although it would never be like the beautiful blue-black tresses of Lettie Bronson, Hiram had to admit that the soft brown of Sister's hair, waving so prettily over her forehead, made the girl's features more than a little attractive.
She was an entirely different person, too, from the one who had helped Lettie and her friends ashore from the grounded motor-boat that day, so long ago—and so Lettie herself thought when she rode into the Atterson yard one October day on her bay horse, and Sister met her on the porch.
“Why, you're Mrs. Atterson's girl, aren't you?” cried Lettie, leaning from her saddle to offer her hand to Sister. “I wouldn't have known you.”
Sister was getting plump, she had roses in her cheeks, and she wore a neat, whole, and becoming dress.