“I should think, Adee, that you would have asked them,” she said after some time. Eliza had let her thoughts go back to her household duties and, some time having elapsed between this question and the remarks which had preceded it, she had forgotten the subject of conversation.
“Asked what—of whom?”
“My birthday—of the angels when they brought me.”
“You were not brought directly to me. I am not your real mother.”
“Not my real one?” Beth dropped her play-things and came close to Eliza and leaned against her knee. There was surprise, consternation, pathos in her face and voice, as she leaned her head against Adee’s arm.
“Not my real one? I don’t see any different, Adee. You’re just like Helen’s mother, only you’re a good deal nicer. She’s a real mother, why hain’t you?”
“I mean, you are not my child by birth.”
“Wasn’t I born your little girl?”
“No,” said Adee. “When you were born you did not belong to me.”
There was nothing more to be said. Beth was quiet—too quiet, Eliza thought, and turned to look at the child. Beth’s lips were quivering and trembling, but she was pressing them hard so as to make no outcry. The tears were very near the surface, but Beth would not let them fall. One glance at the brave little face, and Eliza turned and, throwing her arm about here impulsively, hugged her tight to her bosom.