nd I were friends the instant we looked into each
other's face; for he was "grandpa" who had given us the liver the
evening we did not find our sisters. He had gone home that night and
said: "Mary, at the Fort are three hungry little orphan girls. Take
them something as soon as you can. One child is fair, two are dark. You
will know them by the way they speak to you."

Grandpa had now hastened home to hold me on his lap and to hear me say
that I was glad to be at his house and intended to help grandma all I
could for being so good as to bring me there. After I told how we had
cooked the liver and how good it tasted, he wiped his eyes and said:
"Mine child, when you little ones thanked me for that liver, it made me
not so much your friend as when you called me 'grandpa.'"

As time went on, grandma declared that I helped her a great deal
because I kept her chip-box full, shooed the hens out of the house,
brought in the eggs, and drove the little chicks to bed, nights. I
don't recollect that I was ever tired or sleepy, yet I know that the
night must have sped, between the time of my last nod at the funny
shadow picture of a rabbit which Jakie made hop across the wall behind
the lighted candle, and Courage's barking near my pillow, which grandma
said meant, "Good-morning, little girl!"

It was after one of these reminders of a new day that I saw Leanna. I
don't know when or how she came, but I missed Frances and Georgia the
more because I wanted them to share our comforts. Nevertheless a
strange feeling of uneasiness crept over me as I noticed, later, that
grandpa lingered and that the three spoke long in their own tongue, and
glanced often toward me.

Finally grandpa and Jakie went off in the wagon and grandma also
disappeared, but soon returned, dressed for a trip to the Fort, and
explained that she had heard that Georgia was sick and she would take
me back and bring her in my place. I had known from the beginning that
I was to stay only a little while, yet I was woefully disturbed at
having my enjoyment so abruptly terminated. My first impulse was to
cry, but somehow, the influence of her who under the soughing pines of
the Sierras had told me that "friends do not come quickly to a cry-baby
child" gave me courage, and I looked up into the dear old face before
me and with the earnestness of an anxious child asked, "Grandma, why
can't you keep two of us?"

She looked at me, hesitated, then replied, "I will see." She k