"I don't wonder, sir, that Mr. Ordway 's so taken with her," said Mrs. Bunker to me, as we stood together in the front door. "She 's jest the winnin'est child I ever laid eyes on; she 's jest like a lamb, yit there ain't nothin' stoopid about her. But, ain't it strange, she never so much 's asked for her pa? I was all over a tremble for fear she would. I reckon it 's a mercy the Lord 's taken her out o' his hands."
I did not see Jim or Ally for some hours. I went several times to the door, but I heard Jim's voice talking in a low and earnest tone, and I knew he was telling the child of her father's death and of his intention of adopting her as his sister, and it was better that they should be alone. At last Jim called me in. He was sitting at the head of the bed, and Ally's head was on his shoulder. I never forgot the picture. Ally had been crying bitterly, but her face had a look of perfect peace on it. Jim had been crying also, but his eyes shone with joy and eager purpose.
"Ally," he said, as I entered, "this is Will. He is just the same as my brother; so he is just the same as your brother, you know."
"Yes, sir," said Ally, looking at me with a grave and searching expression. "Shall I kiss you?"
"Yes, indeed, you dear little thing," I exclaimed; and as I stooped over, she put one tiny thin arm ground my neck,—the other was around Jim's,—drew my head down to her face, and kissed me
