Part 43 (1/2)

”The little rascal. And what did Thomas do?”

”Oh! he let her. People always let her. I do myself.”

”She's a fascinating kid,” Truedale said with a laugh. Then, very earnestly: ”I'm rather glad we do not know her antecedents, Lyn; it's safer to take her as we find her and build on that. But I'd be willing to risk a good deal that much love and goodness are back of little Ann, no matter how much else got twisted in. And the love and goodness must be her pa.s.sport through life.”

”Yes, Con, and they are all that are worth while.”

But every change was a period of struggle to Ann and those who dealt with her. She had a pa.s.sionate power of attachment to places and people, and readjustment caused her pain and unrest.

When school was considered, it almost made her ill. She clung to Truedale and implored him not to make her go away.

”But it's only for the day time, Ann,” he explained, ”and you will have children to play with--little girls like yourself.”

”No; no! I don't want children--only Bobbie! I only want my folks!”

Lynda came to her defense.

”Con, we'll have a governess for a year or so.”

”Is it wise, Lyn, to give way to her?”

”Yes, it is!” Ann burst in; ”it is wise, I'd die if I had to go.”

So she had a governess and made gratifying strides in learning. The trait that was noticeable in the child was that she developed and thrived most when not opposed. She wilted mentally and physically when forced. She had a most unusual power of winning and holding love, and under a shy and gentle exterior there were pa.s.sion and strength that at times were pathetic. While not a robust child she was generally well and as time pa.s.sed she gained in vigour. Once, and once only, was she seriously ill, and that was when she had been with Truedale and Lynda about two years. During all that time, as far as they knew, she had never referred to the past and both believed that, for her, it was dead; but when weakness and fever loosened the unchildlike control, something occurred that alarmed Lynda, but broke down forever the thin barrier that, for all her effort, had existed between her and Ann. She was sitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenly the little hot hands reached up pa.s.sionately, and the name ”mother”

quivered on the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda's ears. She bent close.

”What, little Ann?” she whispered.

The big, burning eyes looked puzzled. Then: ”Take me to--to the Hollow--to Miss Lois Ann!”

”s.h.!.+” panted Lynda, every nerve tingling. ”See, little Ann--don't you know me?”

The child seemed to half understand and moaned plaintively:

”I'm lost! I'm lost!”

Lynda took her in her arms and the sick fancy pa.s.sed, but from that hour there was a new tie between the two--a deeper dependence.

There was one day when they all felt little Ann was slipping from them.

Dr. McPherson had come as near giving up hope as he ever, outwardly, permitted himself to do.

”You had better stay at home,” he said to Conning; ”children are skittish little craft. The best of them haul up anchor sometimes when you least expect it.”

So Truedale remained at home and, wandering through the quiet house, wondered at the intensity of his suffering as he contemplated the time on ahead without the child who had so recently come into his life from he knew not where. He attributed it all to Ann's remarkable characteristics.

Late in the afternoon of the anxious day he went into the sick room and leaned over the bed. Ann opened her eyes and smiled up at him, weakly.

”Make a light, father,” she whispered, and with a fear-filled heart Truedale touched the electric b.u.t.ton. The room was already filled with sunlight, for it faced the west; but for Ann it was cold and dark.

Then, as if setting the last pitiful scene for her own departure, she turned to Lynda: ”Make a mother-lap for Ann,” she said. Lynda tenderly lifted the thin form from the bed and held it close.