“Oh, mother—dear—I’m—so happy! It’s a dream come true.” “A dream come true?” Mrs. Theddon repeated the words dazedly. “And have you ever dreamed of things like these, little girl?” “Lots and lots of times. Somehow the Orphanage seemed a place where I was staying for just a little while—until somebody I belonged to came after me.” “I’m so glad you’re not—like—the other Orphanage children, dear. I thought in some ways you might be. But—you don’t know—how pleased—I am!” “I’m just me,” the princess affirmed. “And it seems like—coming home!” The mother bathed and dressed the child, calling a servant to carry away the Orphanage clothes. But if Mrs. Theddon had been pleasantly surprised thus far, it was nothing to her overpowering satisfaction when she beheld her little ward clothed in the habilaments better befitting her character. “You’re wonderful, girlie mine!” the woman whispered, as she surveyed the transformation. “And I think you’re wonderful, too,” the child answered. And yet, twenty-four hours later, a gray Sunday twilight, Mrs. Theddon entered her chamber to discover the child huddled in a window-chair, sobbing convulsively. “What’s the matter, darling?” cried the shocked woman. “Aren’t you happy?” The princess sought frantically to hide her tears. “Yes’m—I’m happy—so happy it hurts. Yet—well, I guess I miss the orphans already!” “Miss them! You mean you’d rather be at the Orphanage than here with me?” “It isn’t the nice things—it isn’t you—it’s—it’s——” “Yes, yes! What is it?” “I guess it’s just the orphans—’specially the babies. I miss havin’ to do things for ’em. For they needed an awful lot done for ’em, and—I was happy because it was me that could do it.” “But they have some one else to look after them now. They’re no worse off because you’ve gone.” “No’m. Perhaps not. I wasn’t ‘specially thinking of their side of it. I was thinking of mine. They liked to have things done for ’em. They told me so. Miss Howland got awful cross sometimes. And I felt happy because I was ’preciated. That’s an awful nice word, ’preciated, isn’t it? I so want folks to ’preciate me, Mrs. Thed—mother dear. I guess everybody does, don’t they?—want to be ’preciated?” Every one wants to be appreciated? Dear God in heaven! “Child, what does put such mature thoughts into your little head?” “If you’d wondered and wondered who you were, and never found out, maybe you’d know how sad you could feel, thinking it was because nobody wanted you and you wasn’t ’preciated.” “You poor, maternal, romantic little lamb! You talk like a woman grown, already.” “Do grown-up ladies feel like that, Mrs. Thed—mother dear?” Mrs. Theddon did not answer at once. Her voice was handicapped when she responded: “Real women do, I fancy, my darling. But maybe there are a lot who have a cruel time showing it. Come, baby! Tell me—did any one ever pick you up and rock you to sleep in their arms? Did any one ever try to sing you a lullaby, child?”