So I ate it, and she watched me with as tender a solicitude as any mother might have done.
“You should eat too,” I urged. But she shook her head.
“I’d rather watch you,” she remarked, “for you need it and I don’t.”
“Do you never eat for the pleasure of eating?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, sometimes. Sometimes when father comes home and we have just finished a meal, we all begin again. And then I forget I’ve had anything before and eat just twice as much—at least mother says so, and she knows everything.”
“And who is your father?” I asked.
“He is my father,” she answered, glancing at me. “He carried you here on a fearful stormy night just lately. And he was very tired, though he is very, very strong, and mother made some food for strengthening him, because he had not been home for a long, long time, and in the wilderness there is very little to be had. Afterwards they went away together, and left me here to look after you, and father said I might sing to you and kiss you, and that would make you well again. Our friends used to come in to watch you too, and we never left you quite alone. Then mother came back, and she kissed me and took me on her knee and cried a little, and I cried also because she did; and then she kissed me again and laughed, and so did I, and she was happy, very, very happy, and said that father was coming home soon and would be able to stay a while.”
As she spoke her eyes shone into mine with a pure radiance.
“I love for him to come home,” she said. “I love for us all to be together;” and suddenly she put her arms round my neck and nestled towards me with a sigh from which even childhood could not drive all the lingering sadness.
“Well, well,” I assured her, “he will be home soon. Think of all the nice times you will have together.” But this form of solace was cut short by her mother coming to the door.