“But I'd like to know who I really be. I want folks, and—and I want to have a real name of my own!”
“Why, bless you!” exclaimed the young fellow, “'Sister' is a nice name, I'm sure—and we all love it here.”
“But it isn't a name. They call me Sissy Atterson at school. But it doesn't belong to me. I—I've thought lots about choosing a name for myself—a real fancy one, you know. There's lots of pretty, names,” she said, reflectively.
“Cords of 'em,” Hiram agreed.
“But, you see, they wouldn't really be mine,” said the girl, earnestly. “Not even after I had chosen them. I want my very own name! I want to know who I am and all about myself. And”—with a half strangled sob—“I guess wishing will never bring me that, will it, Hiram?”
Never before had the young fellow heard Sister express herself upon this topic. He had no idea that the girl felt her unknown and practically unnamed existence so strongly.
“I wouldn't care, Sis,” he said, patting her bent shoulders. “We love you here just as well as we would if you had ten names! Don't forget that.
“And maybe it won't be all a mystery some day. Your folks may look you up. They may come here and find you. And they'll be mighty proud of you—you've grown so tall and good looking. Of course they will!”
Sister listened to him and gave a little contented sigh. “And then they might want to take me away—and I'd fight, tooth and nail, if they tried it.”
“What?” gasped Hiram.