The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. He had one son, who had been co-educated, and three daughters with peculiarly jolly red hair that Ann Veronica found adorable. I want to be myself. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions.
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