She wasn't five when we had her first. Her father was
our nearest neighbour; we were living up in the hills then, fifty miles
from a town. She used to stay with us for days together while her father
went off after cattle. And when he died we brought her home for good. I
haven't a girl of my own, but I've never known what it is to miss one.
Rhoda's no kith or kin to us, but she has been a daughter to me, all the
same, and a sister to the boys. We've had a hard fight since we came home,
for my brothers have been unfortunate lately, and are not able to help us
as they wanted to; but Rhoda hasn't lost heart for a moment."
Mrs. M'Alister had been drawn into making this long speech by the eager
look of interest she saw in Miss Merivale's face; but now she stopped
short, her pale face flushing a little. She felt afraid lest Miss Merivale
might think she was asking for help.
"Then I suppose she had no relatives of her own?" asked Miss Merivale,
after a pause, in which she had been struggling for her voice.
"She had some on her mother's side. I never heard their names. But her
father seemed certain that they would be unkind to the child, and he was
thankful when we promised to keep her. He was a queer, silent sort of man.
We never knew much about him, except that he had lived in Adelaide. But he
was mother and father both to Rhoda.
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