“But she’ll learn to love you, too,” declared Dorothy, determined to cheer the child if she could.
“No,” said Celia again, gravely. “I’ve got to ‘earn my salt,’ Mrs. Hogan says. An’ I guess I’ll hafter work nawful hard to earn that, for I like things salt,” and she shook her head.
“You see, at that other farm, the lady didn’t make me work. I played. And I watched the birds, and the chickens, and the horses and cows. Why,” she said, her face clearing up with the elasticity of youth, “Why, there was an old man that brought his cow along the road to feed every day. The grass was good beside the road and the old man had no reg’lar lot for her to feed in, so my lady friend said.”
The little old-fashioned way in which she used this last phrase almost convulsed Dorothy, despite her feeling of pity for the child.
“And I used to watch the cow. It was a pleasant cow,” said Celia, gravely. “And sometimes the old man would sit down under a tree in the lane, and he’d open a newspaper an’ read to the cow while she was chewin’ grass. She must ha’ been a real intel’gent cow,” concluded Celia, wagging her little head.
“Oh, dear me! you funny little thing!” murmured Dorothy. “I do wish Tavia could hear you.”
But this she said to herself. Celia Moran talked on, in her old-fashioned way: “No’m; I ain’t goin’ to like it so well at Mrs. Ann Hogan’s. I—I’m ’most afraid of Mrs. Hogan. I—I don’t think she likes little girls a-tall.”
“Oh! I hope she’ll like you,” said Dorothy.
“But you will find my brother, Tom?” urged Celia, earnestly. “Tom Moran will take care of me if he finds me. I know he will.”
“I will do my very best to find him, dear,” promised the bigger girl, again, with her arm about Celia’s shoulders.