I must tell you what happened to my little girl, for we all thought it so wonderful.
She was a dear child, only seven years old, and so anxious to have a friend all her own. One day I took her to Boston. She was wild with joy at being allowed to take such a long trip in the cars. As the train steamed out from Newport, Josie's happy little face was pressed close to the window; but after a while she grew less interested in the fields outside, and more so in the passengers near us.
"O mamma!" she whispered to me, "do you see that little girl opposite? I want her for a friend so much!"
The child she had noticed was indeed a sweet little girl, with hair almost as golden as Josie's own. She was soon smiling at Josie, and the two little travellers held up their dollies for each other to look at.
But before we got to Boston my little girl had grown weary, and soon was fast asleep. When we reached Boston she awoke, and saw her little friend disappearing. Josie waved her hand to her, and then, to my great surprise, shut her eyes tight.
"Why, darling," I said, "didn't you hear mamma tell you this was Boston? Don't go to sleep again; there are auntie and little Bess."
"Mamma," she answered gravely, "I was not going to sleep. I was asking God to let that little girl be my friend."
"But, my dear," I said, "you live in Newport, and you have only seen her in the cars. She probably lives in Boston. Come, auntie is hunting for us."