“Have you known many?” asked Stella.
“Not many,” said Ladybird, truthfully; “but I knew a few in India, and India’s the place for them.”
“Child,” said Chester, suddenly, “tell us something of your life in India. It seems to me a bit mysterious.”
“I don’t see any mystery about it,” said Ladybird, cheerfully. “My mama died when I was born, and I lived all my life with my old ayah. Sometimes I didn’t see my papa for two or three years at a time; but when he did come he brought me the most beautiful presents.”
“Have you no picture of your mother,” said Chester, “no letters or books, or anything that was hers individually?”
“No,” said Ladybird; “my papa died of that fearful fever, and everything was burned up. The gentleman who came and brought me away said that my mama was the sister of Aunt Priscilla and Aunt Dorinda; so he sent me here; but that was the first I had ever heard of them.”
“Had your father never mentioned them?” asked Stella.
“No; but then, papa never mentioned anything. When he was at home, he was always having company and gay parties, and he never talked to me, except to ask me if I was happy, and if I wanted any dolls, or candies, or new clothes.”
“And were you happy?” said Stella.
“Yes; I’m always happy. I can’t help it. I was happy there, with my native servants and my Indian entertainments; and I’m happy here, with my aunts and Primrose Hall. And I’m specially happy because I’ve made you two happy; haven’t I?”