Poor little thing! I couldn't help bein' sorry for her.

She didn't know a thing of what was wanted of her, an' she was so glad an' happy to come.

You see, she _was_ lonesome, I suppose.
"'Me?
Want me ?--Mother Anderson ?' she cried.

'Oh, I'm so glad!' Then she made it worse by runnin' up the stairs an' bouncin' into the room like a rubber ball, an' cryin': 'Now, what shall I do, read to you, or sing to you, or shall we play games?
I'd _love_ to do any of them!' Just like that, she said it.

I heard her.