“Belongs to some one of the Judge’s poor tenants, I dare say,” he said to himself, glancing at her humble dress, and he was about passing her by, when something in her face attracted his attention, and he stopped for a nearer view.
“Who is she like?” he said, and he ran over in his mind a list of his city friends, but among them all there was no face like this one. “Where have I seen her?” he continued, and determining not to leave the spot until the mystery was solved, he sat down upon a stone near by. “She sleeps long; she must be tired,” he said at last, as the sun drew nearer to the western horizon, and there were still no signs of waking. “I know she’s mighty uncomfortable with her neck on that sharp point,” he continued, and drawing near he substituted himself for the gnarled roots which had hitherto been Mildred’s pillow.
Something the little girl said in her sleep of Oliver, whom she evidently fancied was with her, and then her brown head nestled down in the lap of the handsome boy, who smoothed her hair gently, while he wondered more and more whom she was like. Suddenly it came to him, and he started so quickly that Mildred awoke, and with a cry of alarm at the sight of an entire stranger, sprang to her feet as if she would run away. But the boy held her back, saying pleasantly:
“Not so fast, my little lady. I haven’t held you till my arms ache for nothing. Come here and tell me who you are.”
His voice and manner both were winning, disarming Mildred of all fear, and sitting down, as he bade her do, she answered:
“I am Mildred,—and that’s all.”
“Mildred,—and that’s all!” he repeated. “You surely have some other name! Who is your father?”
“I never had any, Judge Howell says, and my mother put me in a basket, and left me up at Beechwood, ever so long ago. It thundered and lightened awfully, and I wish the thunder had killed me before I was as tired and sorry as I am now. There’s nobody to love me anywhere but Richard and Oliver, and Richard, I guess, is dead, while Oliver has crippled feet, and if he grows to be a man he can’t earn enough for me and him, and I’ll have to stay with grandmother till I die. Oh, I wish it could be now; and I’ve held my breath a lot of times to see if I couldn’t stop breathing, but I always choke and come to life!”
All the boy’s curiosity was roused. He had heard before of the infant left at Judge Howell’s, and he knew now that she sat there before him,—a much-abused, neglected child, with that strange look upon her face which puzzled him just as it had many an older person.
“Poor little girl,” he said. “Where do you live, and who takes care of you? Tell me all about it;” and adroitly leading her on, he learned the whole story of her life,—how since the woman died she once thought was her mother she had scarcely known a happy day. Old Hepsy was so cross, putting upon her harder tasks than she could well perform,—beating her often, and tyrannizing over her in a thousand different ways.