Here, dear children, are your seven little sisters. Let us count them
over. First came the brown baby, then Agoonack, Gemila, Jeannette,
Pen-se, Manenko, and Louise. Seven little sisters I have called them,
but Marnie exclaims: "How can they be sisters when some are black,
some brown, and some white; when one lives in the warm country and
another in the cold, and Louise upon the shores of the Rhine? Sallie
and I are sisters, because we have the same father and live here
together in the same house by the seaside; but as for those seven
children, I can't believe them to be sisters at all."
Now let us suppose, my dear little girl, that your sister Sallie
should go away,--far away in a ship across the ocean to the warm
countries, and the sun should burn her face and hands and make them
so brown that you would hardly know her,--wouldn't she still be your
sister Sallie?
And suppose even that she should stay away in the warm countries and
never come back again, wouldn't she still be your dear sister? and
wouldn't you write her letters and tell her about home and all that
you love there?