"O dear, yes," Mrs. Paxton hastened to reply; "she plays delightfully, and she has a voice that is really quite unusual for a child; she dances, too, but her greatest gift is her power of imitation. She has a sensitive nature that is open to impressions, and she sees the funny side of everything. She really is a wonderful little mimic. You must see her to appreciate her charm."
The quiet woman looked as if she thought this a doubtful accomplishment, but the one who had eagerly listened said:
"Where is she? I should be so pleased to see her. Not all children are so interesting. Many are dull."
"And lucky they are!" growled old Mr. Cunningham, under his breath, but the ladies did not hear that.
"I don't want these flowers now I've picked them," cried Floretta. "You can have them if you want them," she said, as she turned toward Dorothy.
"I can't hold any more than I have," said Dorothy, "but you could—"
"Then here they go!" cried Floretta, as she flung them broadcast, to lie and wilt in the sunlight.
"Oh, it was too bad to throw them away," said Dorothy. "I was going to say, if you didn't care for them, perhaps Mrs. Hermanton might like them. She said she liked wild flowers and used to pick them, but her rheumatism won't let her pick them now."
"Pooh! I wouldn't have bothered to take them back to her," Floretta replied; and turning about, she ran back to the hotel.