Very willingly Mildred suffered her fair head to rest upon his shoulder, for it gave to her a feeling of security she had never before experienced, for never before had she known what it was to feel a father’s heart throbbing in unison with her own. Suddenly a new thought occurred to her, and starting up, she exclaimed:
“Edith, father, Edith!”
“I’me tomein’, with lots of fowers,” answered a childish voice, and Oliver heard the patter of little feet in the hall.
In a moment she was with them, her curls blown over her face, and her white apron full of the flowers she had gathered for Minnie, “’cause she was so sick.”
“Precious little sister,” and Mildred’s arms closed convulsively around the wondering child, whose flowers were scattered over the carpet, and who thought more of gathering them up than of paying very close attention to what her father told her of Minnie’s being Mildred, her sister, who they thought was dead.
At last Edith began to understand, and rubbing her fat, round cheek against Mildred’s, she said:
“I so glad you be my sister, and have come back to us from heaven. Why didn’t you bring mamma and the baby with you?”
It was in vain they tried to explain; Edith was rather too young to comprehend exactly what they meant, and when there was a lull in the conversation, she whispered to Mildred:
“I knew most you was an angel, and some time mayn’t I see your wings and how you fly?”
The interview between Mildred and Edith helped to restore Richard’s scattered senses, and when the wing business was settled, he said to Mildred: