"I won't tell you what she says about my father, nor think about it. It isn't true, and if it were, she--"
Ruth felt a curious feeling of indignation rising against Mamie Parker. How could she have deserted this child? so soon, at least, after her bereavement? Surely she needed her more than the brother did, who had been alone for years! Then came a great gust of shame and shook her heart. Why should Mamie Parker, a stranger, be expected to show compassion for this lonely girl when her own family, her own mother--But that would not bear thinking about.
"Poor little girl!" she said again, with infinite tenderness. "Will you take me for a friend? I will do the best I can to be a true one."
"Oh, thank you," the child said impulsively. "I am so glad, _so glad_ for you! and only last night I thought I could never be glad about anything again! Aunt Mamie had to go, of course, at the time appointed. It isn't like other journeys, you know; they have to sail when they are told; missionaries do, I mean. That is,--oh, you understand. But Aunt Mamie felt very badly about leaving me; and she said she thought you would love me; but of course I couldn't see why you should. It isn't that I am not cared for, Mrs. Burnham. I have been with Madame Sternheim for six years and I am sure that I have every care and attention that a girl possibly could; she has always made that plain to me; but--She did not like papa, Mrs. Burnham. She never did; and she--almost spoke against him, even to me! Could a girl ever care very much for one who talked and felt as she did about the dearest, kindest, most loving papa that ever lived? oh!"
She clenched her hands, and the tears threatened to choke her; but she put them back with a strong will, and even faintly smiled.
"I shall not cry again," she said. "Madame thinks it is wicked. Mrs. Burnham, I wish you could have known my papa. He was--I mean he was not--oh, I don't know how to say it; and I am not sure that I want to say it, ever. He was good to me always; a girl like me couldn't have had a better father; and I don't know how to live in this world without him. It kills me to have to stay all the time among people who say always; 'Your poor father!' and shake their heads and look as though they could say volumes of ugly things about him if they chose. They shall not! I will not have people talking about my father! the dearest, the best! a great deal better than the self-righteous creatures made of icicles that they admire!"