But Bessie Bell could see nothing to cry about. The band was still playing ever so gaily, and all the little children looked so beautiful and so happy, all playing and running hither and thither on the sawdust walks, that it was good just to look at them.
But on the instant Bessie Bell remembered how sorrowful it was to cry when you could not understand things, so she quickly reached out her little pink hand and laid it on the lady's hand—just because she knew how sorrowful it felt to feel like crying and not to know.
"You see," said Bessie Bell gently, as she softly patted the lady's hand, "you see, you do look something like a Sister,—but," said Bessie Bell, "I believe you do look more like a Mama."
"Little girl," said the lady, "what do you mean?"
And she still looked as if she might cry.
"Yes," said Bessie Bell, for she had begun to think very hard, "Alice has a mama. Robbie has a mama. Lucy has a mama. Everybody has a mama. Never mind, Bessie Bell will find a mama—"
"Little girl," said the lady, "why do you say, Bessie Bell—?"
When the lady said that it seemed to Bessie Bell that she heard something sweet—something away off beyond what the band was playing, so she just clapped her hands and laughed out loud, and said over and over as if it were a little song:
"Bessie Bell! Bessie, Bessie, Bessie Bell!"
But the lady at her side looked down at the child as if she were afraid. Bessie Bell knew how sorrowful it was to be afraid, so she stopped patting her hands and laughing,—for she didn't know why she had begun to do it—and she laid her hand again on the lady's hand, just because she knew how sorrowful it was to be afraid.