"Pshaw!" said Miss Jane. "It ain't Santa Claus brings you things, snow
or no snow. Only babies believe that. You're old enough to know better.
It's your father and mother does it all."

"Are you sure?" asked Rosemary.

"Dead sure. Don't be a silly and cry, now, just because there ain't any
Santa Claus, nor any fairies."

"It isn't that," said the little girl. "It's because I can never have
any more Christmases, if it depends on a father. You know, I haven't a
father."

"I supposed you 'adn't, as 'e ain't 'ere, with yer ma," replied the
young person. "She's mighty pretty."

"I think she's the prettiest mother in the world," said Rosemary,
proudly.

"She don't look much like a mother."

The child opened her eyes very wide at this new point of view. "I
couldn't have a mother who looked any other way," she said. "What do you
think she does look like?"

"Silly puss! I only mean she isn't much more'n a kid, 'erself."

"She's twenty five, twenty whole years more than me. Isn't that old?"

"Lawkes, no. I'm goin' on seventeen myself. I 'avent got any father, no