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“Is Rudanthy going a journey, too, Bridget?”

“‘Over the seas and far away’—or over the land; what differ?”

When the doll had been arrayed in its finery mamma had finished her writing, and, rising from her desk, called the child to her. Then she took her on her lap and said, very earnestly:

“Josephine, you are eight years old.”

“Yes, mamma. This very last birthday that ever was.”

“That is old enough to be brave and helpful.”

“Oh, quite, mamma. I didn’t cry when Doctor Mack vaccinated me, and I sewed a button on my apron all myself.”

“For a time I am obliged to go away from you, my—my precious!”

Josephine put up her hand and stroked her mother’s cheek, begging:

“Don’t cry, mamma, and please, please don’t go away.”

The lady’s answer was a question:

“Do you love papa, darling?”

“Why, mamma! How funny to ask! Course I do, dearly, dearly.”

“Poor papa is ill. Very ill, I fear. He is alone in a far, strange country. He needs me to take care of him. He has sent for me, and I am going to him. But I cannot take you. For many reasons—the climate, the uncertainty—I am going to send you East to your Uncle Joe’s; the uncle for whom you were named, your father’s twin brother. Do you understand me, dear?”