"Certain, but you ought to curl her hair. I made a hundred and twenty curls when I wore that dress."
"That's where Elizabeth inherits her curly locks. Please dress up in Grandmother's muslin, Ruth. Don't you want her to, Grandmummy?"
"It would do my heart good to see her pretty face shining out over my pink muslin."
"If you feel like that, then you shall," Ruth said.
"I have a kind o' feeling that it will bring you luck," Grandmother said, when the soft hair had been loosened and curled about the face, and the pink muslin had been hooked and buttoned and tied till it undulated in delicate folds and curves all about the girl's slender body.
On the lawn under the honeysuckle arbour, on the gate post, on the front steps of the old house, which followed the old-time habit of facing the south, though the street was due north, Peggy took picture after picture, and Ruth Farraday smiled up at the sun like an old-fashioned blush rose blooming in an old-time garden.
"There comes Father," Grandmother said, "let's see how much he'll notice."
Grandfather, approaching, took in the tableau under the honeysuckles. Elizabeth and Peggy watched breathlessly as he made straight for the little figure in Grandmothers pink muslin gown and stood staring down at it.
"I don't know who you be," he said, slowly, "nor where you got the dress you're wearing, but I know what you make me feel like." He swept his hat to his breast with a courtly, old-time bow, and bent over Ruth's little hand and saluted it.
Then he put out his other hand to his wife and drew her arm within his.