“Well, I’ll be damned!” he cried. “Didn’t know the old girl had it in her. Just goes to prove that folks don’t always match their outsides! Yes, I’ll be damned! I’ll be damned a couple of times—maybe three!” “Do you know how long I’ve wanted a little girl and never knew what it was I wanted?” Mrs. Theddon asked when her emotions permitted. “No, ma’am,” the princess answered. “It’s been a long, long time! God never sent me a little girl of my own—excepting my Dream Girl, dear.” “Your Dream Girl?” “Sometimes in dark nights I dreamed a little girl—somebody very like yourself, came to me—and——” “Please don’t cry, Mrs. Theddon!” “We’re going to be so happy, you and I! You must forget the Orphanage or that you ever knew it. You must try to believe you’ve lived with me always. You’re going to have pretty dresses and a beautiful room. You’re going to have all sorts of nice people to teach you and help you. And good times!—we’re going to have all sorts of parties and walks and travels together, you and I—and then some day—all I own will be yours—because you’re all I’ll have, all—I—have—now!” “That will be awfully fine,” the little girl replied joyously. Most children would have been abashed or thoughtlessly ecstatic. The Fairy Foundling was not unappreciative, yet a fine reserve seemed bred in her blood and fiber. This environment of culture and refinement, instead of distressing her, placed her vaguely at ease. “And please, dear—please don’t call me ‘Mrs. Theddon.’ I’m Mrs. Theddon to every one but you. You are to be different from the rest. Call me—if you can—call me mother! Would you call me mother, little girl?” “I’d love to call you mother!” The child smiled up sweetly into the woman’s aching eyes. And something caught in Mrs. Theddon’s throat. Only for an instant. Then another great wave of maternity swept through her tightened breast and long-repressed motherhood welled up gloriously,—fine and overwhelming and golden and true. II Mrs. Theddon led the child down the outer hallway into a small room which opened from her own. White and blue was the color scheme in an atmosphere of silken daintiness. Two windows opened upon a wide panorama of the Connecticut Valley and the river, far-flung from north to south below. Little frocks were laid upon the counterpane. The dressing table was as complete as the boudoir appointments of feminine royalty. Beyond the chamber opened a diminutive, white-tiled bath. “The workmen finished it yesterday afternoon, dear. I made them rush to complete it in time for you to-day. Now I’m going to bathe and dress you—myself. I want to do it! Marie, your maid, will not arrive until Monday. But that was arranged on purpose. For the first two days—I wanted—to accustom you to it, myself. I want us to get acquainted. You don’t mind, do you, dear?” She asked it anxiously, as though the child were a guest as old as herself.