Ida was terrified, and exerted every effort
to console this strange grief. The outburst only endured a minute or
two, however; then a mood of vexed impatience grew out of the
anguish and despair, and Lotty pushed away the child fretfully.
"I've often told you, you can't, you mustn't bother me. There,
there; you don't mean any harm, but you put me out, bothering me,
Ida. Tell me, what do you think about when you lay awake? Don't you
think you'd give anything to get off to sleep again? I know I do; I
can't bear to think; it makes my head ache so."
"Oh, I like it. Sometimes I think over what I've been reading, in
the animal book, and the geography-book; and--and then I begin my
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.
"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."
"You'll be a woman soon enough, Ida," said Lotty, with a quiet
sadness unusual in her.
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