“Silly child,” he answered, giving her hand a shake. “Listen to what I am telling you. You are going to have friends to look after you always. Aren’t you glad?”
“No, I am not glad,” she answered passionately. “I don’t want to go away. I am—lonely.”
Her arms suddenly sought his neck, and her face was buried on his shoulder. He soothed her as well as he could.
“I must go, little girl,” he said, “for I am off to America almost at once. As soon as I can after I come back, I will come and see you.”
“You have only been here one day,” she sobbed.
“I would stay if I could, dear,” Aynesworth answered. “Come, dry those eyes and be a brave girl. Think how nice it will be to go and live with people who will take care of you properly, and be fond of you. Why, you may have a pony, and all sorts of nice things.”
“I don’t want a pony,” she answered, hanging on his arm. “I don’t want to go away. I want to stay here—and wait till you come back.”
He laughed.
“Why, when I come back, little woman,” he answered, “you will be almost grown up. Come, dry your eyes now, and I tell you what we will do. You shall come back with me to breakfast, and then drive up to the station and see us off.”
“I should like to come,” she whispered, “but I am afraid of the other gentleman.”