“Pretty! pretty!” said Waify. “Kind papa to take care of me! Papa, when Waify dies will you bury her here among the flowers, and make a big ‘C,’ for cave, on the stone?”
A hurried kiss was the answer, while a shock that seemed like a premonition struck every nerve.
“Will you, papa? Will you?” pleaded the child. “Right here where the double daisies grow?”
“The garden will be gone, Waify.”
“But won’t you keep it for me, and bring me here?”
“Yes, darling. Yes, little one!” and they went home, the one light-hearted with the prospect of school again, the other saddened with a thought that seemed a prophecy.
A few days of joyous life went by. The little school-girl seemed less fond of play, more clinging to her adopted father, more thoughtful; then a slow fever, that seemed to have been inherited rather than the result of contagion, came on, and Waify, now scarcely out of her babyhood, was going to sleep through a long night.
Giles Mortimer watched her by day and by night, speechless; brought the toys she loved, and laid them beside her; brought the blocks of letters, and she took the “C” and put it under her pillow.
“Papa, we’ve had nice times together. Who’ll be your little girl when Waify goes? Everybody has little girls. Perhaps somebody’ll bring you one.”