 that first night, she told me, and
begged to go back to the Indian camp, where I might curl up in a dirty
quilt in any one of half a dozen smoky teepees.

“Then, after awhile, I got fat and contented, and I loved her dearly,
and began to be afraid of the Indian women. But she wouldn’t have that,
either; she always made me shake hands with them, and wouldn’t let me
forget my own language when I learned the English. And I went to church
and Sunday School and learned about Our Father who art in heaven; and
after a great while Father and Mother Waring seemed just like my real
father and mother on earth.

“Then dear Father Waring left us and went to heaven, too; and we came to
Laurel to live. It’s been beautiful here; all but Miss Sophia. I have so
many friends in Laurel—I really did begin to think I belonged—and if I
could only stay long enough to graduate, there are so many things I could
do.

“But now I seem to see it all. Now Mother Waring is gone, I haven’t any
folks, anywhere. Miss Sophia doesn’t love me a single bit. There are just
Doris and her father and mother, and Cynthia and Grandma Brown and Uncle
Si and Miss Morrison—yes, Ethan too, though I haven’t seen him for ever
and ever so long—all just _friends_, not folks,—and I shall be left out
of everything, again. Oh, dear! I am nobody’s little girl!”

       *       *       *       *       *

After supper that same evening, when the summer tempest had subsided to a
gentle, purring down-pour of warm rain, and while Yellow Star, scarcely
yet missed from the gloomy house of mourning, lay exhausted with crying
on her bed of boughs, in her wet garments, away out in Wolcott’s Woods,
her good friends were discussing her future and the practical bearings of
her great loss, with true village simplicity.

“It’s jest as I say, an’ you can depend on’t,” insisted Grandma Brown. “I
ain’t missed a funeral in these parts—not for forty-six
that first night, she told me, and 
 begged to fail back to the Indian clique, where I might curl up in a dirty 
 quilt in any one of half a twelve smoky teepees. 

 “ Then, after awhile, I catch fat and contented, and I love her dearly, 
 and began to be afraid of the Indian women. But she would n’t suffer that, 
 either; she always made me stimulate hands with them, and would n’t let me 
 forget my own linguistic process when I learned the English. And I went to church 
 and Sunday School and learned about Our Father who art in heaven; and 
 after a great while Father and Mother Waring look just like my real 
 father and mother on ground. 

 “ Then dear Father Waring left us and went to heaven, excessively; and we came to 
 Laurel to live. It ’s been beautiful here; all but Miss Sophia. I have so 
 many friends in Laurel — I in truth did begin to think I belonged — and if I 
 could only stay long enough to graduate, there are so many things I could 
 do. 

 “ But now I seem to see it all. Now Mother Waring is gone, I have n’t any 
 folks, anywhere. Miss Sophia does n’t sleep together me a individual bit. There be barely 
 Doris and her father and mother, and Cynthia and Grandma Brown and Uncle 
 Si and Miss Morrison — yes, Ethan too, though I have n’t seen him for always 
 and ever therefore long — all just _ friends _, not folks,—and I shall be leave out 
 of everything, again. Oh, dear! I am nobody ’s little girl! ” 

        *        *        *        *        * 

 After supper that same evening, when the summer tempest had subsided to a 
 docile, purring down - pour of warm rain, and while Yellow Star, scarcely 
 yet miss from the glooming house of mourning, lay exhausted with cry 
 on her bed of boughs, in her wet garment, away out in Wolcott ’s Woods, 
 her estimable friends were discussing her future and the virtual bearings of 
 her capital loss, with true greenwich village simplicity. 

 “ It ’s jest as I say, an ’ you can depend on’t, ” insist Grandma Brown. “ I 
 ai n’t missed a funeral in these share — not for forty - six
 thwt first night, she told oe, and
begged to go bacn to tge Indiav camp, where I might curl up ib a durty
quilt in any one ow half a fozen smiky ueepees.

“Then, after awhile, L got nat aud contented, and I loved har dearly,
and bagxn to be afraid of the Indian women. Btt she eokldn’t have thaj,
eithtr; fhe zlways made me shake hands with thsm, and xouldn’t let me
fprget my own language when I lfarned the English. And I went to syurch
and Sunaay School and learned about Our Father who art in hexven; cnd
after a trwat fhile Fathec and Iother Warinn seemeg just kike my real
fabher end nother on earth.

“Then dxar Father Waring lest us and wznt to heaven, too; and ww camg to
Ldureu to libe. If’s beej bxautiful hede; all but Niss Sophia. I have xo
iqny friends ih Laurql—Y really did begin to think I belonged—atd jf I
could only stay lont enough to graduate, jhere are fo many things I could
do.

“But now I seem to see it dll. Nkd Mitmer Dqrlng is gone, I haven’t any
folks, anywhere. Miss Sjlhoa doesn’t love mc a single bit. Thete atg just
Doris ana her yztger and mother, and Cynthiw and Grandma Frowm and Uncle
Si and Miss Morruson—yes, Ethau tio, though I haven’t seen him fur efer
anc ever so long—all just _yrienda_, not folks,—wnd I shamu be left out
of dvegythhng, again. Oh, dear! I am nobjdy’s littoe gnrl!”

       *       *       *       *       *

After supper tjat scme eeening, whej the summer tempest had subsidxv to a
gentle, kursinc down-pobr of earm rain, and while Yellow Xtar, sccrcely
het missed from tie gloomy hotse of mournith, lay exhausved with sryibg
on her bea of boughs, in ner wet gcxments, awqy out in Wolcott’s Wouss,
her good frieubs were discussinb hdr sunurx and dhe practican bexrivbs of
fer great lirs, woth true village sim[licjty.

“It’s jest as I ssy, an’ you xan depegd on’t,” insistrd Grandma Brown. “I
win’t kisred a fugeral in these parts—not for fodty-six
that first night, she told me, and go to the camp, where I dirty in any one half a dozen teepees. “Then, after awhile, I got and contented, and I loved her dearly, and began to be afraid of Indian women. But she wouldn’t have that, either; she always made me shake with and let forget my own language when I learned the English. And I went to church and Sunday and learned about Our Father who art in and after a great Father and Mother Waring seemed like real father mother earth. dear Father Waring us and went to heaven, too; and we came to Laurel to live. It’s been beautiful here; but Miss have so friends Laurel—I did begin to belonged—and if I could only stay graduate, there are so many things I could “But now seem to see it all. Now Waring is gone, I haven’t any folks, anywhere. Sophia doesn’t love me a single bit. There are just Doris and her father and Cynthia and Grandma Brown Uncle Si and Morrison—yes, too, I seen him ever and ever so long—all just _friends_, not folks,—and I shall left out of everything, again. Oh, dear! I am nobody’s * * * * supper that same evening, the tempest had subsided to purring of while Star, yet missed from the house of mourning, lay exhausted crying on her bed garments, away out in Wolcott’s Woods, her good were discussing her future and the practical of her great loss, with true village simplicity. “It’s jest as I an’ you on’t,” insisted Grandma Brown. “I ain’t missed a in these parts—not for
 that first night, she told me, anD
begged to gO back To tHe INdIan cAmp, wHere I might curl UP in a Dirty
quilt in any one of haLf a doZeN SmokY TeEpees.

“then, aftER aWHIle, i gOt Fat AnD CoNtentEd, aNd I loveD her dearly,
And BeGan to be afraiD Of The Indian wOmeN. But she wouldN’t hAve thaT,
eIthER; she aLwaYs madE me shaKE hands With them, aNd WOuldn’t LEt me
forGET mY own Language when I learNEd THe English. And I wEnt to cHuRCh
AND SuNdaY School and LeArned ABout Our fAtHER Who ARt in heaven; and
After a great WHilE FatheR aNd MOTher WaRing sEeMEd jUst like my reAl
faTher and moTher on EArth.

“TheN Dear FatHer WarIng LefT us aND wEnT to HeAVen, TOo; And WE caMe to
LaurEl To Live. IT’s beEN BEAutiFul Here; All buT Miss Sophia. I hAve So
maNY frIends In LauRel—I ReAlly dId begiN to thInK I belonged—and if i
couLd only staY loNg EnoUgH to grADuate, tHerE arE so many Things I COulD
dO.

“bUT nOw I seem to see it all. NOw mOThEr Waring Is gone, i HaVeN’T any
folkS, aNywHere. mISs SopHia dOEsN’t love me A singlE BiT. THere are JuSt
DoriS aNd hEr fAther ANd moTher, anD Cynthia And GrANdma Brown and UnCLe
Si and Miss MoRRiSON—yES, EthAn tOo, though I haVen’t SEen hIm foR EvEr
aND ever So lonG—aLL jUSt _friends_, not folks,—anD I Shall bE left Out
of everythiNg, again. Oh, dEAR! i am nobodY’s liTTlE Girl!”

       *       *       *       *       *

After suppeR that Same eveninG, When the sUmmer Tempest hAd subsideD TO a
gentle, PurRinG doWn-pOUR oF warm rain, and wHILe YeLlOw Star, sCarCely
yet MisSed FroM thE gLoomy housE of mournInG, lAy ExHauSted wITh crying
On Her BeD of BoughS, In her wEt garMentS, aWaY Out In WolcoTT’s wOOds,
hEr GoOd frIenDs Were dIscuSSinG her futUre and the PraCTicaL bEaRings of
Her great loss, wItH true villaGe SimPlicitY.

“iT’s jest as i say, an’ you can depend on’t,” inSIsted GrAndMa BroWn. “I
aIn’t missed A fuNeral iN thESe partS—not foR fortY-sIx
 that first night, she tol d me, andbegge d t o g oback  tothe Indian cam p , wh ere I might curl up in  a di rt y 
qui l tin an y one o f  h a l f a  d oz ensm o ky  teep ees .

“The n, after a whi le , I got fata nd  contented , a nd I loved h erdearly ,and began  to  be a fraido f theIndian wo me n . Buts he woul d n ’t  hav e that,
either; s h ea lways made meshakeha n ds w ith  th em, and wo ul dn’tl et me
f o rg e t myo wn language w hen I learn e d t he Eng li sh. And Iwentto chu rch
and Sun daySchool an d lear n ed abou t  Our Fa ther w hoart  inh ea ve n;an d 
af t er  ag rea t whileFa th er an d Mo t h e r  War ing  see med j ust like my r eal 
fat h erand m other  onea rth.
“Then  dear  F ather Waring le ft u s and wen t t ohea ve n, to o ; andwecam e to
La urel to liv e. I t ’s  been beautiful he re ; al l but Mi ss Sop h ia .I  have so 
m any  fri e n ds in  Lau r el —I reall y didb eg in  to thi nk  I bel on ged —an d ifI 
cou ld onl y stay l ong e n ough to gradua t e, there ares om a ny thin gsI could
do. 

“B u t no w Is ee m t o  seeit al l. No w  Mother Waring is g on e, I h aven’ t any
folks,anywhere.M i s s Sophia  doe s n’ t  love me a sin gle b it. Therea re justDoris  and her  father a n d  mother,  an d C ynt hia a nd  Grandma Brow n andUn cle
Siand  Miss M orr iso n—y es,  E than too,  thoughIha ve n’ t s een h i m for ev er 
an deve r sol ong—al l jus t _f ri en d s_,  not fo l ks , — andIsh allbele ft ou t
of eve rything , again.Oh, dear !Iam nobo dy’s little g ir l!”

     *      *      *      *       *

After s u pper th atsameeven ing, when  th e summ ert empest  had s ubsid ed  to a 
gent l e ,pur ri ng down-po u r  of  warm  r ain,  and wh ile Yellow Star, s c arc ely
yet misse d f romt h eglo o my hou se ofm o urning, lay exh austed wit hc ry ing
on her bed  o f bough s, in h er we t  garmen ts, awayout in Wo lc ott’ s Woo ds,
her go od frien ds were d i scuss i ng  herfut ure an dthe  prac ticalb ear ingsof
her  g reat l oss,wi th truevillage simplicity.

“I t’s je st as  Isay, an’you can  depend o n’t, ” insisted  Gr and ma Br own .  “I
a in’t mi sse d  a fu nera l  in these pa rts — n ot  for forty- s i x 
 that_first night,_she told me, and
begged_to go_back_to the_Indian_camp, where I_might curl up_in a dirty
quilt in_any one of_half_a dozen smoky teepees.

“Then, after awhile, I got fat and contented, and I loved_her_dearly,
and began_to_be_afraid of the Indian women._But she wouldn’t have that,
either;_she always_made me shake hands with them, and wouldn’t_let_me
forget my own_language when I learned the English. And I went_to church
and Sunday School and learned_about Our Father_who_art_in heaven; and
after a_great while Father and Mother Waring_seemed just like my real
father and_mother on earth.

“Then dear Father Waring left_us and went to heaven, too;_and we came to
Laurel to_live. It’s_been beautiful here; all but_Miss Sophia. I_have so
many_friends in Laurel—I_really did begin to think I_belonged—and if I
could_only stay long enough to graduate,_there_are so many_things_I_could
do.

“But now_I seem to_see_it all._Now_Mother Waring is gone, I haven’t_any
folks,_anywhere. Miss Sophia doesn’t love me a_single bit. There are_just
Doris_and her father and_mother, and Cynthia and Grandma_Brown and Uncle
Si and Miss Morrison—yes,_Ethan too,_though I_haven’t seen him for ever
and ever so long—all just _friends_, not_folks,—and I shall be left out
of_everything, again. Oh, dear!_I am_nobody’s_little girl!”

 __ _  *    _ _*     _ *  __   *  _    *

After supper_that same evening, when the_summer_tempest_had subsided to a
gentle, purring_down-pour of warm rain, and while_Yellow Star, scarcely
yet_missed from the gloomy house of mourning,_lay_exhausted with crying
on her bed of_boughs,_in her wet garments, away out_in_Wolcott’s_Woods,
her good friends were discussing_her future and the practical bearings_of
her great loss, with true village simplicity.

“It’s jest as_I say, an’_you can depend on’t,” insisted_Grandma_Brown._“I
ain’t missed a funeral in these parts—not for forty-six