“Are you Bridget?” he asked.
“No,” she said, gravely; “I’m Christie.”
“Are you going to stay here?”
“Would you like me to stay?”
“No,” said the boy; “I wouldn’t. I like my mamma to dress me. Biddy brushes too hard.”
“But I am Christie. I’ll brush very gently till your mother gets better again. Wouldn’t you like me to stay? My home is very far-away.”
“How far?” asked Neddie, coming forward and standing beside his brother.
“Oh, ever so far—over the river, and over the hills, and past the woods; away—away—away down in a little hollow by the brook.”
The children looked at her with astonished eyes. She went on:
“There are birds’-nests there, and little birds that sing. Oh, you should hear how they sing! And there are little lambs that play all day long among the clover. And there are dandelions and buttercups, and oh! I can’t tell you how many pretty flowers besides. Whose dog is that?” she asked, suddenly, pointing to a picture on the wall.