“Baby—baby, mine”
“I’ll tip-toe in to my lesson with this child in my arms, and put her carefully in the big rocking chair, so as to have her near if she cries. Of course, I’m only pretending she’s a tiny young thing—because I didn’t bring my baby infant doll with me, and this is only Angie. She’s really almost three years old; but my, she certainly does love to be ‛babied’—and I’d certainly get very lonesome if I didn’t do it—with Mother and Father so far away—and Billy in camp!”
The big
tears
rolled
down
The big tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Come, Mary Frances,” she said. “I feel like shaking you. When you promised Father so faithfully to be a woman, and your Grandma is such a darling!—Suppose you read Mother’s last letter over:
Dear Little Big Mary Frances:
Only twenty times has Mother read over your sweet letter. It was so dear, and brave. I am much better than I was—thanks to such a loving family—and the lovely “aps-mos-spere” here, as you used to say when you were little.
What a beautiful country this is—your “Fatherland” and mine. I want you to see some day the lovely view I am now looking upon: mountains rising high and peeping over this lovely stretch of country to look into the Pacific Ocean, which sparkles like that ir-i-des-cent feather in your dear Grandma’s bonnet.