"Why do you say 'poor child' in that voice? I'm not a poor child. I got broken—yes—and was badly mended, dad says, but I'm not a 'poor child.' Poor childs have no dolls, and no funny insides like me."
The doctor smiled. "What sort of inside is that?"
"Well, you see, I have no outside little friends, and so my friends live inside me. I make new ones now and then, when the old ones get dull, but I like the old ones best myself."
At that moment a step sounded on the stairs; the child's face lit up with a look which made her beautiful.
"That's father!" she exclaimed, and starting up, hastened as fast as her crutch would permit to the door.
Waldron stooped to kiss tenderly the sweet, welcoming face held up to his, then he grasped Dr. Norman's hand.
"So, doctor, you are true," he said with feeling. "You do not promise and forget."
"I am the slower to promise," returned Dr. Norman. "I have just been making acquaintance with your little maid."
"My little Sophy!"
"Yes, father?"