"Oh, yes," and Hanny smiled brightly, and, like a true biographer began at the beginning, the first time the children had seen Daisy, with her long golden curls and pallid face, like a snow-drift. And how Doctor Joe had been in the hospital when she had the operation performed.
"Poor little thing!" exclaimed Mrs. French. "And now there is something they can use that gives a blessed unconsciousness, and when you wake up the worst of the pain is over. I do not know how any one could endure such torture."
"Joe said she was very brave, though she fainted several times. And she's growing straight and tall, and her hair curls lovely again. I have always wished my hair curled naturally. It just twists a little at the ends, but won't make ringlets."
People in those days curled their hair a great deal; but they had to put it in papers. Patent curlers, like a great many other things, had not been invented. When you wanted to be very fine, you went to the hair-dresser's. The real society ladies had some one come to the house to "do" their hair; and sometimes it was very elaborate.
Mrs. French thought curly hair would not improve the little girl. There was something charming in her very simplicity, and her hair was like floss silk.
As she told about Daisy she detailed bits of neighbourhood life, and descriptions of the other children. Mrs. French heard about John Robert Charles and his mother.
"But she's so different now. She is not real strong any more; and then Charles is such a big boy, and goes out with his father. It's queer, but Jim and he are great friends, and Jim goes over there to study with Charles. Mrs. Reed did not use to like boys; and Jim is so full of fun and pranks, mother calls them, and he knows so many funny stories! Mother tries very hard not to laugh at them; but she can't always help it."
The evening passed so quickly that it was bed-time before either of them realised it. Mrs. French took the large square pillows off the bed, and laid one of the silken spreads over the footboard. How beautiful and soft they were, with great flowers so natural it seemed as if you could pick them up! And the fragrance was so delicate and puzzling: one moment you thought it violets, then it suggested roses and lilies and the smell of newly cut grass.
Mrs. French kissed her, and said if she felt strange in the night to call her; but she was asleep in five minutes, and never woke until quite in the morning, it was so much more quiet than in First Street.
When she did sit up in the bed and glance around, she had a queer feeling that she was a part of a fairy story, like the white cat in her enchanted palace, waiting for the Prince, or perhaps Psyche, blown from the hill-top to her beautiful place of refuge, where she found and lost Love, and had to do many hard tasks before she could regain him.