but to everything she said she did not know. She did not know where
her mother lived now. She would rather not see her mother, now she
was not so lonely. She would rather not tell her real name. I might
call her Susie. She had been in France, but she did not like it, and
she had got back to England. She had wandered back, and she was very
desolate, and she _had_ wanted her mother dreadfully, but not
now. Her mother had been bad to her, and she did not wish for her now
that I was so good. To hear her talk you'd think as she was hard, but
at night John and I 'ud hear her sobbing often and often in her
little bed, and naming of her mammie. Never did I come across a more
willful bit of flesh and blood. But she had that about her as jest
took everyone by storm. My husband and I couldn't make enough on her,
and we both jest made her welcome to be a child of our own. She was
nothing really but a child, a big, fair English child. She said as
she wor twelve years old. She was lovely, fair as a lily, and with
long, yellow hair."

"Fair, and with yellow hair?" said Cecile, suddenly springing to her
feet. "Yes, and with little teeth like pearls, and eyes as blue as
the sky."

"Why, Cecile, did you know her?" said Mrs. Moseley. "Yes, yes,
that's jest her. I never did see bluer eyes."

"And was her name Lovedy--Lovedy Joy?" asked Cecile.

"I don't know, child; she wouldn't tell her real name; she was only
jest Susie to us."

"Oh, ma'am! Dear Mrs. Moseley, ma'am, where's Susie now?"