“Oh, you are always so dreadfully cautious and uncertain! I like to make up my mind one way or the other, and then if one is mistaken one can so easily change. What are you waiting for?”
A gesture checked Dulcibel’s advance. She stood still wonderingly. Joan slid her little hand out of George’s, walked calmly to the cottage door, and endeavored to turn the handle, with the air of one at home.
“Joan, does mother live here?” asked George.
“Muvver an’ Frint,” pronounced Joan.
“George!” interjected Dulcibel.
“Spartan brevity,” murmured George. “Hush—wait, Dulcie!”
Joan’s efforts produced an effect. The door was opened from within, and a fresh-faced, elderly woman stood there. She uttered an exclamation, put up her hands, and fell back a step. Joan offered a kiss, evidently as a matter of course. Then she returned to George, and endeavored to pull him forward.
“If it isn’t little Miss Joan—her very own self!” said Mrs. Flint.
“There!” Dulcibel said.
“This is the little girl whom we found beside the shaking bridge,” said George gravely.