"I hain't no folks," answered Edith, holding fast to the locket, and chewing industriously the bit of gum which Rachel, who knew her taste, had slipped into her pocket at parting.
"Hain't no folks! How come you here then?" and the girl Lois advanced nearer to the bedside.
"A man brought me," returned Edith. "He's gone off now, but will come again to-night."
"Your father, most likely," continued the loquacious Lois.
"My father!" and Edith laughed scornfully, "Mr. Arthur ain't big enough to be anybody's father—or yes, maybe he's big enough, for he's awful tall. But he's got the teentiest whiskers growing you ever saw," and Edith's nose went up contemptuously at Arthur's darling mustache. "I don't believe he's twenty," she continued, "and little girl's pa's must be older than that I guess, and have bigger whiskers."
"How old are you?" asked Lois, vastly amused at the quaint speeches of the child, who replied, with great dignity,
"Going on TEN, and in three years more I'll be THIRTEEN!"
"Who are you, any way?" asked Lois, her manner indicating so much real interest that Edith repeated her entire history up to the present time, excepting, indeed, the part pertaining to the locket held so vigilantly in her hand.
She had taken a picture belonging to Mr. Arthur, she said, and as Lois did not ask what picture, she was spared any embarrassment upon that point.
"You're a mighty queer child," said Lois, when the narrative was ended; "but I'll see that you have good care till he comes back;" and it was owing, in a measure, to her influence, that the breakfast and dinner carried up to Edith was of a superior quality, and comprised in quantity far more than she could eat.