wishing-thoughts. And oh, I’ve such lots of wishing-thoughts, you couldn’t believe!”
“And what are the wishing-thoughts about?” inquired the mother, in a matter-of-fact way.
“All sorts of things. Sometimes I wish father hadn’t died, and I wish we were still living in the beautiful little house, as you tell me you used to. It must be so nice to have a father.”
“I don’t see what more he could do for you than I do,” broke in Lotty, turning away her face, and speaking irritably.
“Oh, I don’t mean that, dear,” the child hastened to say, with soothing affection. “I think it’s partly because if I’d a father he’d be kind to you as well, and you wouldn’t cry so often.”
“Well, never mind about that wishing-thought. What else?”
“I often wish I was grown up. I feel tired of being a child; I want to be a woman. Then I should know so much more, and I should be able to understand all the things you tell me I can’t now. I don’t care for playing at games and going to school.”
