“Lessons in French and music are very elevating to the mind, my dear Nixie,” papa began in his laughing way, which was always a trial to Editha, but suddenly he stopped, and looked at her rather sadly.
“How old are you, Nixie?” he asked.
Through the newspapers she found there were men who lived by breaking into people’s houses.
“I am seven,” answered Editha, “seven years, going on eight.”
Papa sighed.
“Come here, little one,” he said, holding out his strong white hand to her.
She left her chair and went to him, and he put his arms around her, and kissed her, and stroked her long brown hair.
“Don’t puzzle your little brain too much,” he said, “never mind about the burglars, Nixie.”
“Well,” said Editha, “I can’t help thinking about them a little, and it seems to me that there must be, perhaps, one good burglar among all the bad ones, and I can’t help being rather sorry, even for the bad ones. You see, they must have to be up all night, and out in the rain sometimes, and they can’t help not having had advantages.”