“Ethan! Cynthia! Oh, E—E—than!”
“It’s Stella’s fawn, now,” piped Uncle Si Wolcott. They were all in the big farmhouse kitchen; Stella on the floor with the fawn’s head on her lap, and a saucer of milk beside her; Cynthia swinging her long limbs from her favorite perch on the edge of the table, and the others standing around in admiring attitudes. “Doctor Ethan” had carefully washed the wound, and pronounced it not serious.
“Th’ game warden’s a pretty good friend o’ mine,” he went on, with a twinkle, “and I don’t guess there’ll be any trouble about her keepin’ it for a pet if she wants to.”
The three girls exploded in a simultaneous “Oh!” of delight, but next instant a look of almost laughable bewilderment overspread their faces. The same thought had occurred to them all at the same time. Miss Sophia!
“Do you suppose she’ll let you?” queried Sin in awestruck tones, while the others held their breath. No one but Cynthia would dare to say things right out like that.
“You might have a little house for him, down by the chicken-coop,” quavered Doris.
Stella was thinking hard. No one knew how she wanted the waif for her own; and she felt sure that dear Mother Waring would not—could not refuse her. The question was, did Stella want her to pay the price?
They were all waiting for her to speak, and at last her clear voice broke the silence.
“The fawn is something like me,” it began, pitifully. “You see, don’t you? It’s wild; it hasn’t any relations. I know just how a wild orphan feels, and I’m afraid it wouldn’t want to live in Miss Sophia’s chicken-coop and have her all the time wishing it wasn’t there. Uncle Si, if you would only be willing to let the fawn stay in the barn-yard with the calves, and if I could just call it mine, and come and feed it sometimes?”