He looked at her in perplexity. “Not really anxious to get rid of the old bear—”
“Daddy-Kins!” And she fell from the tree into his arms. “You know every minute will be an hour and every hour a day—”
“I know, darling,” he assured her, embracing her fondly, “but I can’t help being jealous of the new folks. Sure you are going to like it all?”
“Why, Daddy Doane—”
“Because I’ve left it all to you and faithful Jane and your Aunt Hattie,” he continued. “I know they’ll take care of you, for there’s their own girl only two years older. But you see, girlie, you and I have been such cast iron pals.” They were now both sitting on a log—the apple tree cut down last year—and about them the twilight etched pictures in shadowy outlines. Gloria clung to her father with pathetic tenderness, yet, when he said he must go earlier a look of relief seemed to flash across her serious young face.
“I know how it is, little girl,” he ruminated.
“When you have to do a very hard thing you like to get it done with—”
“That’s it,” she sighed. “I have always felt that funerals would be easier to bear if folks didn’t think about them for day’s ahead—”
“Funerals!”
She laughed—she felt obliged to. Why had she said such a morbid thing as that?