“I promised Celia I’d find her brother,” said Dorothy, gravely. “And I believe you are he, Mr. Moran. She says her brother is Tom Moran, and that he is very big and strong, and—that his hair is red——”
“That’s me!” cried Tom Moran, slapping his knee, and bursting into laughter. “The little dear! She used ter pull my hair when she was a baby. She ain’t forgot.”
“No,” said Dorothy, quietly. “She hasn’t forgotten. ‘He builds bridges, and things,’ Celia says. And she prays for you to come for her every night, Tom Moran. She—she is just wearing her little heart out for you,” and Dorothy hid her eyes and sobbed aloud.
“Oh, my dear!” cried Tavia, coming to hug her.
“You tell me all about her, Miss,” urged the red-haired man. “I’ll sure go after her if she’s a thousand miles away.”
“Oh, she’s not,” replied Dorothy, through her tears. “She’s only eight miles from Glenwood, on Mrs. Hogan’s farm.”
“That ogress!” muttered Tavia.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Tom Moran. “What d’ye call her? Isn’t Cely being treated right by some woman?”
“It’s only that the child wants to be loved—and Mrs. Hogan doesn’t love her,” Dorothy said, mildly. “She’s never improperly treated—not really.”
“Just the same, that Hogan is an awful woman,” grumbled Tavia.