must not stay to tell you more now of the backwoods life of
Louise and her brothers and sister. If you travel some day to the
West, perhaps you will see her yourself, gathering her nuts under the
trees, or sitting in the sun on the doorstep with her knitting. Then
you will know her for the little sister who has perhaps come
closest to your heart, and you will clasp each other's hands in true
affection.

THE SEVEN LITTLE SISTERS.

Here, dear children, are your seven little sisters. Let us count them
over. First came the brown baby, then Agoonack, Gemila, Jeannette,
Pen-se, Manenko, and Louise. Seven little sisters I have called them,
but Marnie exclaims: "How can they be sisters when some are black,
some brown, and some white; when one lives in the warm country and
another in the cold, and Louise upon the shores of the Rhine? Sallie
and I are sisters, because we have the same father and live here
together in the same house by the seaside; but as for those seven
children, I can't believe them to be sisters at all."

Now let us suppose, my dear little girl, that your sister Sallie
should go away,--far away in a ship across the ocean to the warm
countries, and the sun should burn her face and hands and make them
so brown that you would hardly know her,--wouldn't she still be your
sister Sallie?

And suppose even that she should stay away in the warm countries and
never come back again, wouldn't she still be your dear sister? and
wouldn't you write her letters and tell her about home and all that
you love there?

I know you would.

And now, just think if you yourself should take a great journey
through ice and snow and go to the cold countries, up among the white
bears and the sledges and dogs; suppose even that you should have an
odd little dress of white bear-skin, like Agoonack, wouldn't you think
it very strange if Sallie shouldn't call you her little sister just
because you were living up there among the ice?

And what if Minnie, too, should take it into her head to sail across
the seas and live in a boat on a Chinese river, like Pen-se, and drive
the ducks, eat rice with chopsticks, and have fried mice for dinner;
why, you might not want to dine with her, but she would be your sweet,
loving sister all the same, wouldn't she?

I can hear you say "Yes" to all this, but then you will add: "Father
is our father the same all the time, and he isn't Pen-se's father, nor
Manenko's."

Let us see what makes