“Now, Bubble,” said Hilda, “where are those birch-bark cups that you made for us? I have brought nothing to drink out of.”
“I’ll fetch ’em, Miss Hildy,” cried Bubble, springing up with alacrity. “I clean forgot ’em. Say, Pink, shall I—? would you?” and he made sundry enigmatical signs to his sister.
“Yes, certainly,” said Pink; “of course.”
The boy ran off, and Hilda fell to twisting pine tassels together into a kind of fantastic garland, while Pink looked on with beaming eyes.
“Pink,” said Hilda, presently, “how is it that you speak so differently from Bubble and your mother,—so much better English, I mean? Have you—but no; you told me you never went to school.”
“It was Faith,” said Pink, with a look of tender sadness,—“Faith Hartley. She wanted to be a teacher, and we studied together always. Dear Faith! I wish you had known her, Miss Graham.”
“You promised not to call me Miss Graham again, Pink,” said Hildegarde, reproachfully. “It is absurd, and I won’t have it.”
“Well, Hilda, then,” said Pink, shyly. “I wish you had known Faith, Hilda; you would have loved her very much, I know.”
“I am sure I should,” said Hilda, warmly. “Tell me more about her. Why did she want to teach when she was so happy at home?”
“She loved children very much,” said Pink, “and liked to be with them. She thought that if she studied hard, she could teach them more than the district school teachers about here generally do, and in a better way. I think she would have done a great deal of good,” she added, softly.
“Oh! why did she die?” cried Hilda. “She was so much needed! It broke her father’s heart, and her mother’s, and almost yours, my Pink. Why was it right for her to die?”
“It was right, dear,” said Pink, gently; “that is all we can know. ‘Why’ isn’t answered in this world. My granny used to say,—
Never ask the reason why!’”