“I think it is not ‘presently’ yet,—Jane wouldn’t come till ‘presently.’”
“Do you love Jane?” the doctor asked, looking down at the flower-like face.
“Jane is not mamma. She is only Jane,” was the answer.
When the moon rose, the little girl went willingly to bed; and all night long Miss Ellen Harding held her in her arms, as she used to hold her little sister, before the angels took her. Since Aggie’s death, people said Miss Ellen had grown cold and stiff and silent. She felt, herself, as if she had been frozen; but the ice was melting, as she lay there, feeling the soft, round little lump of breathing bliss in her arms; and a tender flower of love was to spring up and bloom in that heart that had grown hard and cold.
There was no talk of sending Rosebud away, though some people wondered much at the doctor, and even almost blamed him for keeping this child, of whom he knew nothing. But he wanted her, and Miss Ellen wanted her; and, indeed, she was the joy and life and blessing of the long-silent household.
She was by no means a perfect child. A well-mannered little creature she was,—some lady had brought her up evidently,—but she was self-willed and obstinate. When she had said, “I’m doing to do” such and such a thing, it was hard to move her from her purpose; unless, indeed, the doctor interposed, and to him she always yielded instantly. But, just such as she was, they found her altogether charming. The doctor never came home without something in his pocket to reward her search; Miss Ellen was her bond-slave; and Mistress Mulloney in the kitchen was ready to work her hands off for her.
Often, when she had gone to bed, the doctor and Miss Ellen used to talk over her strange coming.
“We shall lose her some day,” the doctor would say, with a sigh. “No one ever voluntarily abandoned such a child as that. She is only trusted to our protection for a little while, and presently we shall have to give her up.”
“Should you be sorry, father,” Miss Ellen would inquire, “that we had had her at all?”