"Good-night, Margret. Why, your hair is wet, child!"
For Margret, kissing her good-night, had laid her head down a minute on her breast. She stroked the hair a moment, and then turned away.
"Mother, could you stay with me to-night?"
"Why, no, Maggie,—your father wants me to read to him."
"Oh, I know. Did he miss me to-night,—father?"
"Not much; we were talking old times over,—in Virginia, you know."
"I know; good-night."
She went back to the chair. Tige was there,—for he used to spend half of his time on the farm. She put her arm about his head. God knows how lonely the poor child was when she drew the dog so warmly to her heart: not for his master's sake alone; but it was all she had. He grew tired at last, and whined, trying to get out.
"Will you go, Tige?" she said, and opened the window.
He jumped out, and she watched him going towards town. Such a little thing, it was! But not even a dog "called her nearest and best."