“’Course it is. But my papa had been dead a long time; and my mamma, too. And then my auntie died, so I had to go to the Findling.”
“And wasn’t there anybody else to look out for you?” asked the interested Dorothy.
“Only Tom. And he went away.”
“Tom who?”
“Tom Moran. He’s my brother. I don’t suppose you know him; do you?”
“I don’t think I do,” said Dorothy, shaking her head.
“Oh, you’d remember him—of course,” confided Celia, impressively. “For he is so big, and strong, and—and red-headed. Yes. He’s got awful red hair. And he builds bridges, and things. Oh, I can remember him—just as easy! So I must have been a big girl when they brought me to the Findling.”
“And you haven’t seen your brother since?”
“No’m. And he’d gone away before auntie died. That’s why he doesn’t come for me, I s’pose. So the matron says. He don’t know where I is,” she added, with a little sigh.
“And now Mrs. Hogan’s got me. She’s tooked me to bring up. And she says she’s going to bring me up right strict,” added the child, pursing her lips and shaking her head in her queer, old-fashioned way. “She spects it’s goin’ to be jes’ a job to do it!”