"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.

When she went up-stairs to the Closed Room the next day she told
her mother she was going before she left the kitchen.

"I'm going up to play with the little girl, mother," she said.
"You don't mind, do you?"

Jane had had an evening of comfortable domestic gossip and joking