"'Twas in a
little shop in London I found the pretty things."
Moira knew how much he must love them as a keepsake--that visit to
London was only next in his heart to the trip to America. She caught his
hands, beads, tissue wrappings and all.
"Oh, it's precious they are! And you too!"
The Father fastened them over the girl's shabby dress. "They are only
beads," he admonished. "But it's of this day they'll remind you."
He watched Moira as she ran off down the lane. He noted the quick, sure
tread of her feet, the challenging poise of her head. "Colleen--" he
whispered with a smile. "Little colleen." He turned to his door and his
lips, even though they still twisted in a smile, moved as though in
prayer.
"And may God keep pure the dream in the heart of ye!"
CHAPTER I
THE ORPHAN DOLL
November--and a chill wind scurrying, snapping, biting, driving before
it fantastic scraps of paper, crackly leaves, a hail of fine cinders. An
early twilight, gray like a mist, enveloped the city in gloom. Through
it lights gleamed bravely from the grimy windows rising higher and
higher to the low-hanging clouds, each thin shaft beckoning and telling
of shelter and a warmth that was home.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25