She was christened Sara, after her
dead mother, but she was always Blossom to her father--the precious
little blossom whose plucking had cost the mother her life.
Sara Glover's people, especially a wealthy aunt in Montreal,
had wanted to take the child, but Old Man Shaw grew almost
fierce over the suggestion. He would give his baby to no one.
A woman was hired to look after the house, but it was the father
who cared for the baby in the main. He was as tender and faithful
and deft as a woman. Sara never missed a mother's care,
and she grew up into a creature of life and light and beauty,
a constant delight to all who knew her. She had a way
of embroidering life with stars. She was dowered with all
the charming characteristics of both parents, with a resilient
vitality and activity which had pertained to neither of them.
When she was ten years old she had packed all hirelings off,
and kept house for her father for six delightful years--
years in which they were father and daughter, brother and sister,
and "chums." Sara never went to school, but her father saw to her
education after a fashion of his own. When their work was done
they lived in the woods and fields, in the little garden they
had made on the sheltered side of the house, or on the shore,
where sunshine and storm were to them equally lovely and beloved.
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