“Well, well, don’t cry—­all right—­you shall be it—­but I can tell you something much nicer.”  He assumed a knowing air, as one who withheld knowledge of overwhelming fascinations.

“Tell me—­what?”

[Illustration:  “BUT YOU’RE NOT MY REALLY PAPA!”]

And so, little by little, hardly knowing where to begin, but feeling that any light whatsoever must profit a soul so benighted, he began to teach her.  When she had been put to bed at early candle-light, he went to see if she remembered her lesson.

“What is the name of God in pure language?”

And she answered, with zest, “Ahman.”

“What is the name of the Son of God?”

“Son Ahman,—­the greatest of all the parts of God excepting Ahman.”

“What is the name of man?”

“Sons Ahman.”

“That is good—­my little girl shall be chosen of the Lord.”

He waited by her until sleep should come, but her mind had been stirred, and long after he thought she slept she startled him by asking, in a voice of entire wakefulness:  “If I am a good little girl, and learn all the right things—­then can I be a generation of vipers?” She lingered with relish on the phrase, giving each syllable with distinctness and gusto.  When he was sure that she slept, he leaned over very carefully and kissed the pillow beside her head.

In the days that followed he wooed her patiently, seeking constantly to find some favour with her, and grateful beyond words when he succeeded ever so little.  At first, he could win but slight notice of any sort from her, and that only at rare and uncertain intervals.  But gradually his unobtrusive efforts told, and, little by little, she began to take him into her confidence.  The first day she invited him to play with her in one of her games was a day of rejoicing for him.  She showed him the dolls.

“Now, this is the mother and this is the little baby of it, and we will have a tea-party.”

She drew up a chair, placed the two dolls under it, and pointed to the opening between the rungs.

“Here is the house, and here is a little door where to go in at.  You must be very, very particulyar when you go in.  Now what shall we cook?” And she clasped her hands, looking up at him with waiting eagerness.

He suggested cake and tea.  But this answer proved to be wrong.

“Oh, no!”—­there was scorn in her tones—­“Buffalo-hump and marrowbones and vebshtulls and lemon-coffee.”

He received the suggestion cordially, and tried to fall in with it, but she soon detected that his mind was not pliable enough for the game.  She was compelled at last to dismiss him, though she accomplished the ungracious thing tactfully.

“Perhaps you have some farming to do out at the barn, because my dollies can’t be very well with you at a tea-party, because you are too much.”

But she had shown a purpose of friendliness, and this sufficed him.  And that night, before her bed-time, when he sat in front of the fire, she came with a most matter-of-fact unconsciousness to climb into his lap.  He held her a long time, trying to breathe gently and not daring to move lest he make her uncomfortable.  Her head pillowed on his arm, she was soon asleep, and he refused to give her up when Martha came to put her to bed.