“I’m older than I look,” replied Cissy, drawing herself up; but she was not big enough to go far.
“I’m nine—going in ten. I can make porridge, and clean the room and wash Baby. And Will’s learning to wash himself, and then he’ll be off my hands.”
It was irresistibly funny to hear this small mite talk like a woman, for she was very small of her age; and Alice and Margaret could not help laughing.
“Well, but thou knowest thou canst not do a many things that must be done. Who takes care of you all? I dare be bound thou does thy best: but somebody there must be older than thee. Who is it now?”
“Have you e’er an aunt or a grandmother?” added Margaret.
Cissy looked up quietly into Alice’s face.
“God takes care of us,” she said. “Father helps when his work’s done; but when he’s at work, God has to do it all. There’s nobody but God.”
Alice and Margaret looked at each other in astonishment.
“Poor little souls!” cried Margaret.
“Oh, but we aren’t!” said Cissy, rather more eagerly. “God looks after us, you know. He’s sure to do it right, Father says so.”