“Sick,” answered the little one again.
“I hope you have a father,” said I, looking around the cars, for the little sisters seemed quite alone.
“Yes, out there (pointing out on the platform to a man with black crape on his hat, who was—shall I tell you? laughing and joking with some men outside), that’s father.”
“Yes, that’s father!” sang the little one, twisting her flowers, “that’s father.”
Poor little things.
“I loved mother,” said the elder girl, as she saw my eyes moisten; “mother loved me too. I used to go to store for mother; when she died she kissed me, and gave me her parasol;” and the poor child drooped her head over my hand with which she was playing.
“Do you know that you will see your mother again?” said I.
“No! shall I?”
“Yes; she will not come here; but God will take you to see her, if you are a good child.”
“I’m glad;” said she, softly.