It was characteristic of Jim Canning that this note made him cry. He was so sensitive to its utter callousness and ingratitude. Then he dabbed his eyes with his old red handkerchief, and went upstairs. He tapped on Annie’s door, then he opened it and said quietly:
“Annie, it’s all right, my dear. It’s only me. May I come in?”
The sleeping child was awake abruptly. She held out her arms.
“I ought not to have woken you up, my love, only I felt a little—lonely. Annie, would you like to come away with me to a beautiful place in the country, where it’s all woods and flowers, and little streams?”
“Oh, Daddy, yes! And would there be lambs, too, and little black pigs, and brown calves?”
“Yes, my dear; all those things; and birds, too, and quietness, and freedom.”
“But, Daddy, could we?”
“Yes, dear; I’ve had some good fortune.”
Annie was very wide awake now, and she sat up and clapped her hands.