“I think I begin to know what Aunt Luna meant by God’s making it up to me,” she said, after a moment’s silence, during which she had been holding and caressing Edna’s hand.
Edna looked inquiringly at her, and she continued:
“I was so sorry about Georgie,—that’s sister, you know. You seen her, Jack said.”
“Yes.”
And Edna gave a little shiver as she recalled the face which had looked so coldly and proudly upon her.
It had evidently never looked thus to this little child, who went on:
“I cried so hard when she didn’t come, and was kind of mad at Heaven, I guess, and Aunt Luna talked and said how He’d make it up some way, if I was good, and so He sent me you, though it’s funny you didn’t go back with that poor man. He was your beau, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, my husband,” Edna faltered, adding: “I was sick, hurt, you know.”
She could not explain why she had not gone with her husband’s body, as it seemed natural that she should have done. Neither did Annie wait for any explanation, but went on talking in her old-fashioned way, which greatly surprised Edna, who was not much accustomed to children. Annie was an odd mixture of childish simplicity and womanly maturity. From having lived all her life with no other companions than grown-up people, she was in some respects much older than her years, and astonished Edna with her shrewd remarks and her mature ways of thinking. Georgie was the theme of which she never tired, and Edna found herself feeling more lenient toward the haughty woman whom she had instinctively disliked. There must be something good in her, or this little child would not love her so devotedly.
“The bestest sister and the beautifulest,” Annie said, and when Edna, who had gathered from Jack that it was nearly two years since Georgie had been in Chicago, remarked that she should hardly suppose Annie could remember how she looked, Annie replied: “Oh yes, I ’members ’stinctly, or thinks I do. Any way, I has her picture and her letters; they are so nice. I want to show you one.”