“You poor, motherless little thing!” choked Dorothy. “I’ll try my best to find your brother. I really will, dear.”
“That’ll be nice,” confided Celia. “For I think I shall like better bein’ with him than with Mrs. Hogan.”
“And where is Mrs. Hogan going to take you, dear?” asked Dorothy.
“To her farm. A farm is a nawful nice place,” said Celia, gravely. “Was you ever at a farm?”
“Oh, yes.”
“AND WHERE IS MRS. HOGAN GOING TO TAKE YOU, DEAR?”
Dorothy Dale’s Promise. Page [20].
“So was I,” confided Celia. “Last summer. They sends a bunch of us kids from the Findling to a farm—O-o-o, ever so far away from the Findling. And an old lady got me at the station, an’ we drove—O-o-o, ever so far to where there wasn’t any houses, or streets, or wagons, or music machines, or saloons, or delicatessen stores.
“There was just one house where the old lady lived. And it was kinder lonesome; but the grass was there and bushes all flowered out like what’s in the flower-store windows. An’ they smelled sweet,” continued Celia, big eyed with her remembrance of her first experience in the country.
“I felt funny inside—all lonesome, like as though there was a hole here,” and she put her little hands upon her stomach to show where she felt the emotion which she could so ill express—the homesickness for the sights, and sounds, and bustle of the city.