“Is it wise, Lyn, to give way to her?”
“Yes, it is!” Ann burst in; “it is wise, I’d die if I had to go.”
So she had a governess and made gratifying strides in learning. The trait that was noticeable in the child was that she developed and thrived most when not opposed. She wilted mentally and physically when forced. She had a most unusual power of winning and holding love, and under a shy and gentle exterior there were passion and strength that at times were pathetic. While not a robust child she was generally well and as time passed she gained in vigour. Once, and once only, was she seriously ill, and that was when she had been with Truedale and Lynda about two years. During all that time, as far as they knew, she had never referred to the past and both believed that, for her, it was dead; but when weakness and fever loosened the unchildlike control, something occurred that alarmed Lynda, but broke down forever the thin barrier that, for all her effort, had existed between her and Ann. She was sitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenly the little hot hands reached up passionately, and the name “mother” quivered on the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda’s ears. She bent close.
“What, little Ann?” she whispered.
The big, burning eyes looked puzzled. Then: “Take me to—to the Hollow—to Miss Lois Ann!”
“Sh!” panted Lynda, every nerve tingling. “See, little Ann—don’t you know me?”
The child seemed to half understand and moaned plaintively:
“I’m lost! I’m lost!”
Lynda took her in her arms and the sick fancy passed, but from that hour there was a new tie between the two—a deeper dependence.
There was one day when they all felt little Ann was slipping from them. Dr. McPherson had come as near giving up hope as he ever, outwardly, permitted himself to do.