"Don't tell me there was nothing happening then," she said. "She just came up to me with them dead flowers in her hand an' a kind of look in her eyes as if she was half sorry for me an' didn't know quite why. "'The door opens for me,' she says. 'That's where I play every day. There's a little girl comes and plays with me. She comes in at the window, I think. She is like the picture in the room where the books are. Her hair hangs down and she has a dimple near her mouth.' "I couldn't never tell any one what I felt like. It was as if I'd got a queer fright that I didn't understand. "'She must have come over the roof from the next house,' I says. 'They've got an extension too--but I thought the people were gone away.' "'There are flowers on our roof,' she said. 'I got these there.' And that puzzled look came into her eyes again. 'They were beautiful when I got them--but as I came down-stairs they died.' "'Well, of all the queer things,' I said. She put out her hand and touched my arm sort of lovin' an' timid. "'I wanted to tell you to-day, mother,' she said. 'I had to tell you to-day. You don't mind if I go play with her, do you? You don't mind?' "Perhaps it was because she touched me that queer little loving way--or was it the way she looked--it seemed like something came over me an' I just grabbed her an' hugged her up. "'No,' I says. 'So as you come back. So as you come back.' "And to think!" And Jane rocked herself sobbing. A point she dwelt on with many tears was that the child seemed in a wistful mood and remained near her side--bringing her little chair and sitting by her as she worked, and rising to follow her from place to place as she moved from one room to the other. "She wasn't never one as kissed you much or hung about like some children do--I always used to say she was the least bother of any child I ever knew. Seemed as if she had company of her own when she sat in her little chair in the corner whispering to herself or just setting quiet." This was a thing Jane always added during all the years in which she told the story. "That was what made me notice. She kept by me and she kept looking at me different from any way I'd seen her look before--not pitiful exactly--but something like it. And once she came up and kissed me and once or twice she just kind of touched my dress or my hand--as I stood by her. SHE knew. No one need tell me she didn't." But this was an error. The child was conscious only of a tender, wistful feeling, which caused her to look at the affectionate healthy young woman who had always been good to her and whom she belonged to, though she remotely wondered why--the same tenderness impelled her to touch her arm, hand and simple dress, and folding her arms round her neck to kiss her softly. It was an expression of gratitude for all the rough casual affection of the past. All her life had been spent at her side--all her life on earth had sprung from her.