However, I made room for her.
She proceeded to confide to me all of her past history. She was returning
home from a visit to her aunt. Her mother had died a good many years ago,
"when Johnnie was a mere baby." She "kept house for father, and took care
of Johnnie." She "tried hard not to have father feel his loss. It was
very hard," she added, gravely, "for a man to be left alone so." She had
bought a little book for Johnnie, but she never had much time to read;
besides she wasn't quick to learn. She could pick the words out, to be
sure, but, somehow, it didn't make good sense, and would I read the book
to her?
Oh, to take counsel of my own despair! How dark and wild it was growing
outside! Where was I going? whom should I meet there?
And so I read, at the foot of gorgeously-illuminated pages, how--
"Henny Penny and Ducky Lucky got started for the fair,
When Goosie Poosie and Turkey Lurkey went out to view the air," etc.,
the range of characters swiftly widening as the narrative increased in
power. To my surprise, the mature child listened to this nonsense with
the utmost gravity and interest. No shadow of derision played on her
attentive features.
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