Winning Her Way 



THE STORY OF A CHANGE OF HEART 

 BY EBEN E. REXFORD 



Chapter II. — (Continued.) 



T DON'T want anything to eat !" cried 



I the child, running impulsively to 

 Miss Betty, and seizing her by the 

 hand. "I want you to love me ! I want 

 you to love me ! I'll be so good if you 

 will! I'll do anything you want me to, 

 I'll mind everything you tell me — only 

 love me, love me !" 



Her tear- wet face was lifted imploringly 

 to the face of the stern, hard woman, her 

 eyes full of an appeal more pathetic than 

 that expressed in words. It seemed as if 

 all her heart was in that sorrowful cry, 

 ^^Love me, love me !" 



Miss Betty's heart was not quite all 

 stone, she found, considerably to her own 

 surprise, for she had long congrati^lated 

 lierself on being superior to the weak- 

 nesses of ordinary men and women. The 

 child's sorrow made some impression on 

 her in spite of her effort to resist it. But 

 it won no response from her in word or 

 act. It merely kept her from giving ut- 

 terance to the harsh words that rose to her 

 lips. The child felt her silence as a re- 

 pulse, and she began to cry again in that 

 helpless, hopeless way children have when 

 they feel themselves without friends. 



^'Xow, see here," said Miss Betty, as 

 if the child was a criminal on trial for 

 some severe offense, and she, as judge, had 

 to render sentence of punishment, "we 

 might jest as well come to some sort of an 

 understandin' first as last. Ef you think 

 you're goin' to make me like ye by takin' 

 on in this way, you're dretful mistaken. 

 The sooner ye quit it, the better it'll be 

 all 'roimd." 



Then she took the child by the hand 

 and led her into the house, where no child- 



ish voices had made music since she could 

 remember. Children had always seemed 

 out of place there, in the atmosphere which 

 Miss Betty had created for herself. 



"Ef you're hungry, you c'n have some 

 bread'n milk," she said, more at a loss 

 as to what to say to the little girl than 

 she would have been before a dozen grown 

 people. 



"1 don't want anything," answered 

 Mary. 



"Well, you don't have to eat ef you 

 don't want to," responded her aunt. 

 "There ain't any compulsion about it. 

 But ye needn't go to sulkin', thinkin' ye'll 

 carry yer p'ints that way. Ef there's any- 

 thing I abominate more'n another, it's 

 a child that sulks. I could stan' 'most 

 anything else better'n I could that." 



The little girl's lips quivered, and the 

 tears dropped over her pale cheeks, but 

 she made no reply. Such a homesick, 

 heartsick feeling as came over her, father- 

 less and motherless, and alone among 

 strangers, and — most of all — unwelcome, 

 made her feel just then as if there was 

 nothing left in life worth living for. 



Miss Betty sat and looked at her in grim 

 silence, evidently expecting that she would 

 "say somethin' back," in the manner pe- 

 culiar to most children of her acquaint- 

 ance. But Mary did not seem inclined to 

 do that, and presently her aunt left her 

 alone in the kitchen, and went to see about 

 some work that needed doing outside. 



"She can pout it out alone," thought 

 the hard-hearted woman. "She's b'en hu- 

 mored to death, I s'pose. Thinks all she's 

 got to do when she wants a thing is to 

 cry for it. She'll git rid o' that notion 

 here, I reckon. I ain't a-goin' to humor 

 her, I c'n tell her. I never humored any- 



