“I want—my daddy!—I want—my—dad-dy!” sobbed Rosalind.
“You poor little kid!” crooned Benedicta. And gently pushing Polly aside she sat on the edge of the bed and held the child close. “Poor little kid!”
The sobbing lessened, but still kept on.
“Now, see here!” began Benedicta in a coaxing tone, “you just be a good girl and stop crying, and pretty soon we’ll have a regular superbondonjical time.”
“I don’t know what kind of a time that is—I guess I never had one.” The mite was interested at once.
“Oh, it’s lovely, amazin’ly lovely, a superbondonjical time is!” The voice was inspiring.
Rosalind smiled. “Will we have it now?” she asked.
“Just as soon as I can get it ready; I guess about the time you’ll sit up to your little table in your little chair.”
This was a wonderfully satisfying answer, and Rosalind closed her eyes with a breath of content. She was constantly looking forward to ten o’clock in the morning and six o’clock in the afternoon, those being the hours when she was taken up for a short time and allowed to sit in the small chair that “daddy” had made for her and to eat her luncheon or supper upon the pretty table which Grandpa Wheatley had fashioned to match the chair.
Benedicta held her a moment longer and then laid her tenderly upon her pillow.