eal vicious whack with the brush. What she said was actually comical:
'He's mine; if I want to take the dirt from his shoes, I can. He
_shan't_ walk on dirt--and he's mine!'"

"The little rascal. And what did Thomas do?"

"Oh! he let her. People always let her. I do myself."

"She's a fascinating kid," Truedale said with a laugh. Then, very
earnestly: "I'm rather glad we do not know her antecedents, Lyn; it's
safer to take her as we find her and build on that. But I'd be willing
to risk a good deal that much love and goodness are back of little Ann,
no matter how much else got twisted in. And the love and goodness must
be her passport through life."

"Yes, Con, and they are all that are worth while."

But every change was a period of struggle to Ann and those who dealt
with her. She had a passionate power of attachment to places and people,
and readjustment caused her pain and unrest.

When school was considered, it almost made her ill. She clung to
Truedale and implored him not to make her go away.

"But it's only for the day time, Ann," he explained, "and you will have
children to play with--little girls like yourself."

"No; no! I don't want children--only Bobbie! I only want my folks!"

Lynda came to her defense.

"Con, we'll have a governess for a year or so."

"Is it wise, Lyn, to give way to her?"

"Yes, it is!" Ann burst in; "it is wise, I'd die if I had to go."

So she had a governess and made gratifying strides in learning. The
trait that was noticeable in the child was that she developed and
thrived most when not opposed. She wilted mentally and physically when
forced. She had a most unusual power of winning and holding love, and
under a shy and gentle exterior there were passion and strength that at
times were pathetic. While not a robust child she was generally well and
as time passed she gained in vigour. Once, and once only, was she
seriously ill, and that was when she had been with Truedale and Lynda
about two years. During all that time, as far as they knew, she had
never referred to the past and both believed that, for her, it was dead;
but when weakness and fever loosened the unchildlike control, something
occurred that alarmed Lynda, but broke down forever the thin barrier
that, for all her effort, had existed between her and Ann. She was
sitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenly
the little hot hands reached up passionately, and the name "mother"
quivered o