My lamp was burning as I had left it; my traveling-bag was on the table. Still holding the child, she stood, pale as death, waiting for me. Elfie’s wondering eyes rested inquiringly on my face as I approached them. She looked half inclined to cry; the suddenness of the mother’s action had frightened the child. I did my best to compose Elfie before I spoke to her mother. I pointed out the different objects which were likely to interest her in the cabin. “Go and look at them,” I said, “go and amuse yourself.”
The child still hesitated. “Are you angry with me?” she asked.
“No, no!”
“Are you angry with mamma?”
“Certainly not.” I turned to Mrs. Van Brandt. “Tell Elfie if I am angry with you,” I said.
She was perfectly aware, in her critical position, of the necessity of humoring me. Betwee
