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I ask papa is you pretty, an' he tell me yes, bootiful, an' every night I p'ays for you and say God bress papa an' mam-ma, an' auntie, and Miss McDolly, and 'ittle brodder, an' make Daisy a dood dirl, and have Miss McDolly send her sumptin' for Tissmas, for Christ's sake.
It seemed to her she never could stop crying or grow calm again, for as often as she thought of the touching words, "I p'ays for you," there came a fresh burst of sobs and tears, until at last nature was exhausted, and with a low moan Daisy sank upon her knees and tried to pray, the words which first sprang to her lips framing themselves into thanks that somewhere in the world there was one who prayed for her and loved her, too, even though the love might have for its object merely dolls and candies and toys.
And this is Baby Bessie, and this is Bessie mamma," was the prompt reply; and Neil rejoined: "Yes, I knew your mamma when she was a little girl no bigger than you, and her hands felt just as yours feel." "I p'ays for you every night when mamma puts me to bed. I say, 'God bless Uncle Neil," the child continued.
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