that she had promised, but she preferred to lift up her voice.
“I haven’t any mamma,” she proclaimed. “I haven’t—a bit—of mamma.”
“Yes, you have,” said Sara, cheerfully. “Have you forgotten? Don’t you know that Sara is your mamma? Don’t you want Sara for your mamma?”
Lottie cuddled up to her with a consoled sniff.
“Come and sit in the window-seat with me,” Sara went on, “and I’ll whisper a story to you.”
“Will you?” whimpered Lottie. “Will you—tell me—about the diamond mines?”
“The diamond
be pitied and made much of. She had probably heard some grown-up people talking her over in the early days, after her mother’s death. So it became her habit to make great use of this knowledge.
The first time Sara took her in charge was one morning when, on passing a sitting room, she heard both Miss