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"I am sorry for father," she said a moment later, raising her

tear-stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands.

"It's nothing but misfortunes now," she added suddenly with that

peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to assume when they

want to speak like grown-up people.

"Did your father love you?"

"He loved Lida most," she went on very seriously without a smile,

exactly like grown-up people, "he loved her because she is little

and because she is ill, too. And he always used to bring her

presents. But he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture,

too," she added with dignity. "And mother never used to say

anything, but we knew that she liked it and father knew it, too.

And mother wants to teach me French, for it's time my education

began."

"And do you know your prayers?"