But the child came back again to Judith Lynn. She held out one little sun-browned, sea-browned hand.
“I’m happy to have seen you,” she said, with soft graciousness, as if Judith were a duchess in laces instead of a boy-girl in fisherman’s togs. “I’d be pleased to see you some more. I like you.”
“Oh!” stammered the boy-girl in fisherman’s togs, a flush of pleasure reddening her brown face. No one had even said “I’d be pleased to see you,” to her before, though Blossom, of course, was always pleased. No one but Blossom had ever said, “I like you,” and Blossom’s way was, “I love you.”
“I must go—she’s ’most here,” went on the child, rather anxiously. “But first I wish you’d tell me who Blossom is. You spoke about Blossom, didn’t you?”
“Yes. She’s my little sister. Her regular name is Janet. It’s only me calls her Blossom.”
“Oh, but that’s lots the prettiest name! I’m going to call her that, too. I’d be pleased to see Blossom. Is she about my tallness?”
Judith’s face had undergone one of its swift changes. It had grown defensive and a little fierce. She should not see Blossom!—this other child who could walk away over the sand to meet Elises, whoever Elises were. She should not see Blossom! Blossom should not see her!
“But, maybe—prob’ly she’s a baby—”
“No, she’s six. She’d be about as tall as you are, if she was straightened—I mean if she could stand up beside o’ you. I guess you better go to that woman in the cap or she’ll scold, won’t she?”
“Goodness, yes! Elise always scolds. But I’d rather be scolded than not hear about that little Blossom girl—”