It made no difference if her mother had forfeited his love.
It made no difference if Jack Sherman was her father, and that the two men heartily hated each other.
It was his own little grandchild he held in his arms.
She had sealed the relationship with a trusting kiss.
"Child," he said, huskily, "you will come and see me again, won't you, no matter if they do tell you not to?
You shall have all the flowers and berries you want, and you can ride Maggie Boy as often as you please." She looked up into his face.

It was very familiar to her.

She had looked at his portrait often, unconsciously recognizing a kindred spirit that she longed to know.
Her ideas of grandfathers, gained from stories and observation, led her to class them with fairy godmothers.

She had always wished for one.
The day they moved to Lloydsborough, Locust had been pointed out to her as her grandfather's home.

From that time on she slipped away with Fritz on every possible occasion to peer through the gate, hoping for a glimpse of him.
"Yes, I'll come suah!" she promised.