Barbara, the professor's ancient housekeeper, laid her
knotted hand on the golden curls on her lap.
But "thou, dear maid" could not look ahead so far. It was more than
enough for Jinty that Nature's waves and storms were passing over her at
the moment.
"Sit beside my bed, and talk me to sleep, please, Mrs. Barbara, dear!"
entreated the little girl, clutching tightly at the old lady's skirts.
So Mrs. Barbara seated herself, knitting in hand, by the little white
bed, and Jinty listened to the stories she loved best of all, those of
the days when her father was a little boy and played under the great
elms of Old Studley with Mike, the ancient raven, that some people
declared was a hundred years old at least. He was little more than a
dream-father, for he had been for most of Jinty's little life away in
far-off China in the diplomatic service. Her sweet, young, gentle mother
Jinty did not remember at all, for she dwelt in a land that is
far-and-away farther off than China, a land:
"Where loyal hearts and true
Stand ever in the light,
All rapture through and through
In God's most holy sight."
"And, really and truly, Mrs. Barbara, was it the very same Mike and not
another raven that pecked at father's little legs same's he pecks at
mine?" Jinty inquired sleepily.
"The very self-same. Thief that he is and was!" wrathfully said Mrs.
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