"I remember well," I replied; "and those old ballads you sang suited your voice. But I am glad you are getting interested in the choir and in your singing lessons."
"Yes, and some of my other lessons I like very much. And, then, we are to have a play, in which I am to take the part of an Indian."
"You ought to do that well," I remarked, "because you have lived so much in the open air."
I thought as I spoke that she had indeed the free, wild grace of movement peculiar to the children of Nature.
"That's what Sister said when she gave me the part," Winifred assented. "It is great fun being an Indian. I have to wear feathers on my head and some paint on my face, and a beaded skirt and a blanket embroidered with quills and things. Wouldn't Barney and Moira stare if they saw me!"
And she laughed at the picture she conjured up of their amazement.
"Granny Meehan would stare too, were it possible for her to see you," I observed; "though that she could not do even if you stood before her."
"Poor old Granny!" Winifred said softly. "I wish I could see her. But there's no use wishing."
And she dismissed the subject with that curiously unchildlike composure and self-control which I had often perceived in her.
"Winifred," I finally asked, "do you remember your father at all?"