“Why, there!” she said, “in the upper drawer,--my pretty little papa in
a purple frame. Don’t you know?”
I went to the bureau-drawer, and found in a case of velvet a small ivory
painting of her father. This I brought, wondering, and the child took it
reverently and kissed the pictured lips.
“Faith,” I said, as I laid it softly back, “do you always do this?”
“Do what? Kiss papa good night? O yes, I’ve done that ever since I was a
little girl, you know. I guess I’ve always kissed him pretty much. When
I’m a naughty girl he feels _real_ sorry. He’s gone to heaven. I like
him. O yes, and then, when I’m through kissing, mamma kisses him too.”