“And you’ll be sure to find the right Tom Moran,” urged the little girl. “You know, he’s big, and he’s got ever so red hair, and he builds bridges and things.”
“I shall find the right one,” promised Dorothy.
“You see, Mrs. Hogan don’t want me to talk about him,” said the child, faintly. “When I forgets and does, she says: ‘Drat the young ’un! Ain’t she thankful for havin’ a home?’
“But, do you know,” pursued Celia, her voice dropping to a whisper again, “I’se afraid I ain’t as thankful as I doughter be—no, I ain’t.”
“Not thankful?”
“No, ma’am! I can’t somehow jes’ feel thankful for Mrs. Ann Hogan.”
Dorothy could not blame her for this, but she did not feel it right to agree with her. “Oh, my dear! I expect Mrs. Hogan is kind to you—in her way,” she said.
“Yes, I ’spect so,” sighed Celia, nodding slowly. “But you can’t jes’ get uster some folkses’ ways; can you? It—it was better in the Findling—yes, it was, Dorothy. And I hoped if any lady took me away it would be a nice, cuddly one.”
“A cuddly one?” repeated Dorothy. “What sort of a lady is that?”
“Why, you know,” Celia said, with eagerness. “The kind that cuddles you, and makes a-much over you. Of course, you never was a Findling, Dorothy?”