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Betty said her prayers that night before her cyclamen. It seemed to her a “mornin’-glory that had been growed by an angel, its petals sparkled so, an’ it smelled so pure.” She breathed very softly her thanksgiving, with a vague feeling that it had wings and could find its way better than she knew. “Why not, I’d like to know? Isn’t this my shack? And shall I let a kid burn up?” Mrs. Wopp rose from her chair and seating herself on the sofa beside her husband took his thin hand in her substantial one, squeezing it openly..
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“Yes indeed,” laughed Mrs. Wopp, who was just then entering the room with a platter of bacon and eggs, “Betty’s our mornin’-glory girl shore nuff, she’s first up in the mornin’, she’s a glory little urchin an’ she’s our little girl to stay.” He did laugh, yet was sober again. She was tucking the clothes close about him, preparing to lie down by his side. But he reached his arms out suddenly and flung them around her neck. “O mamma, the awfullest thing in the world next to doing a crime, must be not to have a mother. I must jolly May Nell more. And, mamma—mother, I don’t know why,—” his voice was very low and shy, “why God’s looked out for me so good; but anyway, you’re—you’re the whole bunch!” “Miss Gordon, with all his book larnin’ he knowed no more ’bout black-jack than I know ’bout divin’ fer pearls, and the Bullock boys thort he was no good anyhow, ef he couldn’t beat their Par at cards. So one mornin’ they met him as he was goin’ to school, an’ they give him a good beatin’ up, then flung him in Rodd’s creek to cool him, bein’ winter. He crawled outer the creek, Miss Gordon, an’ never went to the school no more. It shorely was a jedgement on him fer playin’ those wicked card games. Moses, parse the ketchup.” Several hands waved wildly and a chorus of voices eagerly broke in; through the childish babel could be heard a lisping narrative..
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