The shopping the next day was something wonderful. Daffodil was quite sure the fairies must have had a hand in it. And such beautiful things, she fairly held her breath over them.
"But, madam, when am I to wear these lovely garments? For mother says I grow so fast, and there is no one to take them afterward."
Betty Wharton laughed many times at the fascinating simplicity of the child.
Then she took her to the mantua-makers, where she was measured, and where she hardly understood a word of what they were saying, but between whiles played with a beautiful yellow cat, who sat on a silken cushion and purred his delight at the touch of the gentle hands.
"Now, you are to come home to dinner with me."
"Did uncle say I might? For mother told me to do nothing without his permission."
"Oh, you darling infant!" She squeezed the slim little body that, after all, was plump enough. It was shocking for a young person to be fat in those days.
"I will make it all right with him."
Miss Wharton's house was much smaller. A square sort of hall, with oddly pretty furnishing, a parlor and a dining-room off it, and all were filled with curiosities that were family heirlooms, beautiful things, for Miss Wharton abhorred ugliness and despised horrid Chinese idols. The dinner was very dainty, and Daffodil wondered how she could feel so much at home.
"And to-morrow we will go out again, but we will drive around, and you shall see the city. What means that sober look?"