Her father was old like me, and sick,
and she was a dear daughter like you."
"Did he die?" she asked.
"Yes, he died. He died sooner than he would have died because some one he
thought a great deal of did something very wicked and almost killed his
daughter with grief. How would I feel if some one should make you so
unhappy and I could not defend you and had to die and leave you alone."
"Would you want to kill him--the man that hurt me?"
But his eyes were on the water and not on her face; his countenance
became ashy, he gasped and hurried his handkerchief to his lips. Jeroma
was not afraid of the bright spots that he sought to conceal by crumpling
the handkerchief in his hand, she had known a long time that when her
father was excited those red spots came on his handkerchief. She knew,
too, that the physician had said that when he began to cough he would
die, but she had never heard him cough very much, and could not believe
that he must ever die.
"Papa, what became of the man that hurt Aunt Prue and made her father
die?"
"He lived and was the unhappiest wretch in existence. But Aunt Prue tried
to forgive him, and she used to pray for him as she always had done
before. Jerrie, when you go to Aunt Prue I want you to take her name,
your own name, Prudence, and I will begin to-day to call you 'Prue,' so
that you may get used to it."
"Oh, will you?" she cried in her happy voice. "I don't like to be
'Jerrie,' like the boy that takes care of the horses.
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