"We're going to be great friends, eh, little Ann?" Truedale was pleased,
Lynda saw that. The little girl was making a deep impression.
"Yes." Then--deliberately: "Shall I have to teach you to be a father?"
"What does she mean?" Truedale looked at Lynda who explained Betty's
charming foolery.
"I see. Well, yes, Ann, you must teach me to be a father."
And so they began their lives together. And after a few days Lynda saw
that during the child's stay with Betty the crust of sullen reserve had
departed--the little creature was the merriest, sweetest thing
imaginable, once she could forget herself. Protected, cared for, and
considered, she developed marvellously and soon seemed to have been with
them years instead of days. The impression was almost startling and both
Lynda and Truedale remarked upon it.
"There are certain things she does that appear always to have been
waiting for her to do," Conning said, "it makes her very charming. She
brushes the dogs and cats regularly, and she's begun to pick up books
and papers in my den in a most alarming way--but she always manages to
know where they belong."
"That's uncanny," Lynda ventured; "but she certainly has fitted in,
bless her heart!"
There had been moments at first when Lynda feared that Thomas would
remember the child, but the old eyes could hardly be expected to
recognize, in the dainty little girl, the small, patched, and soiled
stranger of the annoying visit.
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