from her desk, called the child to her. Then she took her on her lap and said, very earnestly:
"Josephine, you are eight years old."
"Yes, mamma. This very last birthday that ever was."
"That is old enough to be brave and helpful."
"Oh, quite, mamma. I didn't cry when Doctor Mack vaccinated me, and I sewed a button on my apron all myself."
"For a time I am obliged to go away from you, my—my precious!"
Josephine put up her hand and stroked her mother's cheek, begging:
"Don't cry, mamma, and please, please don't go away."
The lady's answer was a question:
"Do you love papa, darling?"
"Why, mamma! How funny to ask! Course I do, dearly, dearly."
"Poor papa is ill. Very ill, I fear. He is alone in a far, strange country. He needs me to take care of him. He has sent for me, and I am going to him. But I cannot take you.
