Martin started at this unexpected question. A picture rose before him of the white face of a dead woman, lying in the Indian lodge on the bank of the great river beyond the mountains. How could he answer the child?
"I never knew your dear mamma, little one," he at length replied. "I never talked to her. But I know Beryl, and have heard her sing."
"Does she love little girls?"
"Yes. She loves everything that is good and beautiful."
"Does she love you, daddy?"
"I—I am not sure," Martin stammered, while a flush came into his face. "I am not beautiful, neither am I good."
"Yes, you are," and Nance twined her little arms around his neck. "You are so beautiful and good that anybody would love you. I do, anyway."
Martin could say no more. A lump rose in his throat, and a strange feeling took possession of him. The simplicity and innocent prattle of this child were unnerving him. He told her that it was getting late, and that she must go to bed. As he bent over her and gave her the usual good-night kiss she looked up earnestly into his face.
"When I am a big woman," she said, "I want to be just like Beryl. Do you think I will, daddy?"
"I trust so," was the quiet reply. "But go to sleep now, and we'll talk about it to-morrow."