But she found it very hard to say what she had come to do. Her voice failed—her eyes filled with tears.
“Why, Una, little girl, what is the trouble? Don’t be afraid to tell me.”
Rosemary put her arm around the thin little form and drew the child close to her. Her eyes were very beautiful—her touch so tender that Una found courage.
“I came—to ask you—to marry father,” she gasped.
Rosemary was silent for a moment from sheer dumbfounderment. She stared at Una blankly.
“Oh, don’t be angry, please, dear Miss West,” said Una, pleadingly. “You see, everybody is saying that you wouldn’t marry father because we are so bad. He is very unhappy about it. So I thought I would come and tell you that we are never bad on purpose. And if you will only marry father we will all try to be good and do just what you tell us. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble with us. Please, Miss West.”
Rosemary had been thinking rapidly. Gossiping surmise, she saw, had put this mistaken idea into Una’s mind. She must be perfectly frank and sincere with the child.
“Una, dear,” she said softly. “It isn’t because of you poor little souls that I cannot be your father’s wife. I never thought of such a thing. You are not bad—I never supposed you were. There—there was another reason altogether, Una.”
“Don’t you like father?” asked Una, lifting reproachful eyes. “Oh, Miss West, you don’t know how nice he is. I’m sure he’d make you a good husband.”
Even in the midst of her perplexity and distress Rosemary couldn’t help a twisted, little smile.