“I guess they’re glad,” Leonora replied. “Prob’ly I wouldn’t go if they were my own; but I don’t belong to them.”
“You don’t?”
“Why, no. My mother died when I was three years old. I can only just remember her. In a little while father married again, and pretty soon he died—he was awful good to me! I cried when they said he wasn’t goin’ to get well. Then my stepmother married Mr. Dinnan. So, you see, I ain’t any relation really, and they’re prob’ly glad not to have me to feed any more. And I guess I’m glad—my! But I can’t b’lieve it yet! Say, I’m goin’ to your school, and Mrs. Jocelyn is comin’ to take me out in her carriage this forenoon to buy me some new clothes!”
Polly’s radiant face was enough to keep Leonora’s tongue lively.
“She’s goin’ to fix me up a room right next to hers, all white and pink! And she’s goin’ to get me a beautiful doll house and some new dolls—she says I can pick ’em out myself! And—what do you think!—she said last night she guessed she’d have to get me a pair of ponies and a little carriage just big enough for you and me, and have me learn to drive ’em!”
“O-h! won’t you be grand!” beamed Polly.
And then, while Leonora chattered on, came to her a picture of that afternoon—so far away it seemed!—when she had been folded in Mrs. Jocelyn’s arms, to be offered these same pleasures, and which she had refused for love of Dr. Dudley, although the thought of calling him father had never then come to her. How glad she was that she had not mentioned this! She had always had an intuitive feeling that the concern was Mrs. Jocelyn’s, to be kept as her secret, and she had therefore been silent. Now Leonora need never know that she was “second choice.” Her friend’s happy confidences recalled Polly’s strolling thoughts.
“I don’t b’lieve you have any idea how perfectly splendid it makes me feel to think I’m goin’ to have that sweet, beautiful Mrs. Jocelyn for my own mother.” The last word was little more than a whisper. Leonora’s dark eyes were luminous with joy.