“There’s no use wishing for anything away out here in the woods,” said Lottie fretfully, rocking violently back and forth by the side of the bed.
“No, of course we couldn’t have one, but I should like to see a Christmas tree before I die. It must be splendid!”
And poor, sick May turned wearily on her pillow.
“You’re not going to die, May,” said Lottie impatiently, “and I hope you’ll see lots of Christmas trees—if you don’t this year. It’s your turn to go to Aunt Laura’s next.”
May sighed.
“I’m too tired, Lottie. I never shall go.”
“Of course you’re tired,” said Lottie in the same fretful tone; “nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to read—just lying on your back, week after week, in this old log house. It’s enough to make anybody sick. I s’pose it’s awful wicked, but I think it’s just too bad that we two girls have to live in this mean old shanty, with nobody but stupid old Nancy!”
“Oh, Lottie,” said the sick girl anxiously, “don’t forget father, and what a comfort we are to him.”
“You are, you mean,” interrupted Lottie.
“No, I mean you. I’m an expense and care to him; but what could he do without you? And remember,” she went on softly, “how he hated to bring us to this lonely little place, and wanted to put us in school, and leave us, but we begged him”—