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“Are you hungry, Isobel?” questioned her mother. “Miss Gordon here, made me a harnsome lace yoke fer an underwaist, an’ give it to me fer my birthday,” volunteered Mrs. Wopp. “White eyebrows child! What are you talkin’ about? Yer eyebrows are blacker nor that stove.”.
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Again he patted her shoulder, and this time his voice was more kind. “You’re a brave little girl, and if I was your dad I’d be dead stuck on you. Just you don’t be afraid. I’ll bring your supper by and by.” “Never mind Mosey, yer heart don’t need fixin’ anyhow,” comforted Betty. Diligently as Betty had tended this little garden, it was considered to be a family possession, the child’s own particular treasures lying beyond its fragrant border. Her cherished morning-glories and climbing nasturtiums found a welcome support in the old wooden fence. “I c’d eat a rhindoceros,” he confided to Clarence..
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