“Child,” said the Judge, firmly, “I don’t wish any distinction to be made. You and Titus are on the same footing.”
Bethany made a little obstinate movement of her neck. “My mamma told me all about it, sir. She said, ‘Bethany, when I am dead, remember a ’dopted child isn’t like a real child. She must be sweet, and good, because people are watching her. She must save everything, even a pin. She must say every day, “Lord, keep me gentle like a lamb.”’”
The Judge, somewhat disconcerted, said hastily, “I wish your mother had not told you that.”
Bethany shook her head patiently. “You are very kind, sir, but you can’t change me—I’m only ’dopted. I’m not borned your really grandchild.”
Her companion was silent for a few minutes, musing on the enormous power of early impressions and maternal influence. At last he said, somewhat impatiently, “Then I suppose that as I am not your real grandfather you do not care much for me.”
Bethany had begun to carefully stack her little arms with her wraps to take upstairs, but she suddenly laid them down again.
“Sir,” she said, facing him once more, “last night I said to Ellen and Susie, said I, ‘Girls, you must have been dreadful fond of your dear grandpa, who was your real grandpa, when I am only his play grandchild, and I just love him—just love him,’” she repeated, earnestly.
The Judge looked down at the little face glowing in the firelight.
“You are a good child,” he said, softly, and he bent over and kissed her forehead; “whatever you say, you are my own dear granddaughter after this.”
She smiled happily, then bent in a reproving way over the pigeon, who had come in and was pecking at one of her gloves that had fallen on the hearthrug.