A tear escaped its bound, and her hand sought to hide it.
“Of course, it couldn’t be,” he said quickly. “I didn’t need to ask.”
“Oh, why must there be such hard things in the world!” broke out Polly impulsively.
“Even as it is, she is happier than most children.”
“I know, still—” She did not go on; and he spoke brightly.
“Little Miss Rosalind Ferne told me to-day that I was extravagant.”
“Extravagant!” Polly’s forehead wrinkled in perplexity.
“She asked me what I was going to have for dinner, and I told her I intended to fricassee three chickens. ‘Dear me!’ she said, ‘fricassee means all cut up, doesn’t it?’ I told her it did. ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘I’m sorry, for I do like to see a bird on the table, and I think you’re pretty extravagant with your ammunition.’”
Polly laughed. “She does make droll speeches.”
“Yes, she has strange thoughts. This morning I overheard the children talking, and Rosalind said, ‘What pretty hills those are—the ’way-off ones! I wish I knew who made them.’ Dorothy spoke up. ‘Why, Rosalind, don’t you know? God made them.’—‘Who made the sunshine?’—‘God made it,’ Dorothy answered.—‘Who made the stars?’ went on Rosalind.—‘God. He made everything. He made the whole world.’ For a moment Rosalind was silent; then she asked, in quite a now-I’ve-got-you tone, ‘Well, who made God?’ But Dorothy was ready. ‘Nobody made Him,’ she replied. ‘He has lived always. There never was a time when He didn’t live.’ They were quiet for a little. Then Rosalind responded in a rather weary tone, ‘My, He must be healthy!’