“Don’t call me that, dear,” said Dorothy, hastily, and wiping away her tears. The little one was dry-eyed as she had been that day in the railroad station. “My name is Dorothy—Dorothy Dale. Can you remember that?”
“Oh, yes! It’s so pretty,” said Celia, smiling up at her wistfully. “And please, can I ask you a question, Dorothy Dale—please?”
“All you want to, dear,” cried her friend.
“Oh!” cried Celia, clasping her little, clawlike hands, “have you found Tom Moran yet? Have you found my brother?”
CHAPTER XI
SNOWBOUND
The earnestness in the little, shrewd face, the quaver of her voice, the clutch of her fingers around Dorothy’s neck, all impressed the girl from Glenwood Hall as to just how much the finding of the big, lost brother meant to little Celia Moran.
“I haven’t found him yet, dear,” she said, brokenly. “But I will—I will—find him. I have written a letter, and I am going to keep on searching—Oh, my dear! I know I shall find him for you in the end. Just you have patience.”
“That’s what the matron used to say at the Findling,” said Celia. “But, do you know patience is a nawful hard thing to keep?”
“I expect it is, dear.”