“To me?” Truedale smiled.

“Yes.  Thomas found her blacking your shoes the other day.  She was making an awful mess of it and he tried to take them from her.  She gave him a real vicious whack with the brush.  What she said was actually comical:  ’He’s mine; if I want to take the dirt from his shoes, I can.  He shan’t walk on dirt—­and he’s mine!’”

“The little rascal.  And what did Thomas do?”

“Oh! he let her.  People always let her.  I do myself.”

“She’s a fascinating kid,” Truedale said with a laugh.  Then, very earnestly:  “I’m rather glad we do not know her antecedents, Lyn; it’s safer to take her as we find her and build on that.  But I’d be willing to risk a good deal that much love and goodness are back of little Ann, no matter how much else got twisted in.  And the love and goodness must be her passport through life.”

“Yes, Con, and they are all that are worth while.”

But every change was a period of struggle to Ann and those who dealt with her.  She had a passionate power of attachment to places and people, and readjustment caused her pain and unrest.

When school was considered, it almost made her ill.  She clung to Truedale and implored him not to make her go away.

“But it’s only for the day time, Ann,” he explained, “and you will have children to play with—­little girls like yourself.”

“No; no!  I don’t want children—­only Bobbie!  I only want my folks!”

Lynda came to her defense.

“Con, we’ll have a governess for a year or so.”

“Is it wise, Lyn, to give way to her?”

“Yes, it is!” Ann burst in; “it is wise, I’d die if I had to go.”

So she had a governess and made gratifying strides in learning.  The trait that was noticeable in the child was that she developed and thrived most when not opposed.  She wilted mentally and physically when forced.  She had a most unusual power of winning and holding love, and under a shy and gentle exterior there were passion and strength that at times were pathetic.  While not a robust child she was generally well and as time passed she gained in vigour.  Once, and once only, was she seriously ill, and that was when she had been with Truedale and Lynda about two years.  During all that time, as far as they knew, she had never referred to the past and both believed that, for her, it was dead; but when weakness and fever loosened the unchildlike control, something occurred that alarmed Lynda, but broke down forever the thin barrier that, for all her effort, had existed between her and Ann.  She was sitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenly the little hot hands reached up passionately, and the name “mother” quivered on the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda’s ears.  She bent close.

“What, little Ann?” she whispered.

The big, burning eyes looked puzzled.  Then:  “Take me to—­to the Hollow—­to Miss Lois Ann!”