“Would you like to stay, dear?” asked he.
“Yes, sir.” And she was lifted out of the sleigh by Janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down.
“I’ll be along down after dark, sometime,” said Mr Snow, as he drove away.
Little Emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. Mr Elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with Marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride.
“And hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?” said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. “What is your name, little one?”
“Emily Snow Arnold,” answered she, promptly.
“Emily Arnold Snow,” said Menie, laughing.
“No; Emily Snow Arnold. Grandma says I am not father’s own little girl. My father is dead.”
She looked grave, and so did the rest.
“But it is just the same. He loves you.”