it,” she cried, “I don’t care! I don’t care!”
She stood panting a moment longer, and then cried out again.
“Oh, it isn’t true!” she said. “It CAN’T be true! But oh, how true it seems!”
The blazing fire drew her to it, and she knelt down and held out her hands close to it—so close that the heat made her start back.
“A fire I only dreamed wouldn’t be HOT,” she cried.
She sprang up, touched the table, the dishes, the rug; she went to the bed and touched the blankets. She took up the soft wadded
and gave them money or rich gifts, or took them home to beautiful dinners. Guy Clarence had been affected to tears that very afternoon by the reading of such a story, and he had burned with a desire to find such a poor child and give her a certain sixpence he possessed, and thus provide for her for