As this bitter thought taunted and stung her, she uttered a low cry of anguish and shame.
"What is the matter? Don't cry, it will spoil your pretty eyes."
Regina turned quickly, and saw little Llora Carew standing near, and arrayed only in her long white night dress, and pink rosetted slippers.
"Llora, how came you out of bed? You ought to have been asleep three hours ago."
"So I was. But I waked up, and felt so lonesome. Mammie has gone off and left me, and hunting for somebody I came here. Won't you please let me stay awhile? I can't go to sleep."
"But you will catch cold."
"No, the room is warm, and I have my slippers. Oh! what a pretty dress! And your arms and neck are like snow, whiter even than my mamma's. Please do sing something for me. Your voice is sweeter than my musical box, and then I am going away to-morrow."
She had curled herself like a pet kitten on the rug, and looking down at her soft dusky eyes, and rosy cheeks, Regina sighed.
"I am so tired, dear. I have no voice left."
"If you could sing before all the people at the Cantata, you might just one song for little me."