“Horace,” his stepmother remarked in a tone of impatience, when at length a pause in the conversation afforded an opportunity, “it is perfectly absurd!—the way you have of petting and fondling that great girl as if she were nothing but a baby!”
“Well, madam,” he returned with a slight smile, “so long as it pleases her and myself I cannot see that any one else need object. When you are tired of it, Elsie,” he added, gazing fondly down into the sweet little face now blushing rosy red and half hidden on his shoulder, “I shall stop.”
“I’m not tired! I never shall be tired of it, papa!” she answered with impulsive warmth; “but,” and her voice fell almost to a whisper, “mayn’t Annis and I run away now for a little while?”
“Yes,” he said, releasing her, and with a sign to Annis, who rose and followed with joyful alacrity, she hastened from the room.
The two were presently busied again with the dolls and their adornments, chatting and laughing gayly together as they worked.
“Annis, don’t you think I have just the nicest, kindest father in the world?” asked Elsie.
“Except mine; he is just as good and kind to me.”
“Oh, yes, of course! I forgot Uncle Stuart.”
“I don’t—” began Annis, then checked herself and began anew. “Does Cousin Horace never call Aunt Dinsmore mother?”
“No,” Elsie said, with a look that seemed to say such an idea had never before occurred to her; “she isn’t his mother.”