"Say, but she's been a true little
pardner," he whispered proudly, as there came a lull in the storm. "She
was just born for me, an' everything seemed to happen on her birthday,
an' that's why I can't be downhearted even NOW. It's her birthday? you
see, an' this morning, before you came, I was just that happy that I set
a plate for her at the table, an' put her picture and a curl of her hair
beside it--set the picture up so it was looking at me--an' we had
breakfast together. Look here--"
He moved to the table, with Brokaw watching him like a cat, and brought
something back with him, wrapped in a soft piece of buckskin. He unfolded
the buckskin tenderly, and drew forth a long curl that rippled a dull red
and gold in the lamp-glow, and then he handed a photograph to Brokaw.
"That's her!" he whispered.
Brokaw turned so that the light fell on the picture. A sweet, girlish
face smiled at him from out of a wealth of flowing, disheveled curls.
"She had it taken that way just for me," explained Billy, with the
enthusiasm of a boy in his voice. "She's always wore her hair in
curls--an' a braid--for me, when we're home. I love it that way. Guess I
may be silly but I'll tell you why. THAT was down in York State, too. She
lived in a cottage, all grown over with honeysuckle an' morning glory,
with green hills and valleys all about it--and the old apple orchard just
behind.
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