“It’s a game of cards,” and Pepsie nodded toward the table; “I was playing when you came. It’s very amusing. Now tell me about your bird. Where did you get him?”
“A boy gave him to me—a nice boy. It was on the cars, and mama said I could have him; that was before mama’s dear head ached so. It ached so, she couldn’t speak afterward.”
“And haven’t you a doll?” interrupted Pepsie, seeing that the child was approaching dangerous ground.
“A doll? Oh yes, I’ve got ever so many at the ranch; but I haven’t any here. Tante Pauline promised me one, but she hasn’t got it yet.”
“Well, never mind; I’ll make you one; I make lovely dolls for my little cousins, the Paichoux. I must tell you about the Paichoux. There is Uncle Paichoux, and Tante Modeste, and Marie, the eldest,—she has taken her first communion, and goes to balls,—and then there is Tiburce, a big boy, and Sophie and Nanette, and a lot of little ones, all good, pleasant children, so healthy and so happy. Uncle Paichoux is a dairyman; they live on Frenchman Street, way, way down where it is like the country, and they have a big house, a great deal larger than any house in this neighborhood, with a garden, and figs and peaches, and lovely pomegranates that burst open when they are ripe, and Marie has roses and crape myrtle and jasmine. It is lovely there—just lovely. I went there once, long ago, before my back hurt me so much.”
“Does your back hurt you now?” interrupted Lady Jane, diverted from the charming description of the Paichoux home by sudden sympathy for the speaker.
“Yes, sometimes; you see how crooked it is. It’s all grown out, and I can’t bear to be jolted; that’s why I never go anywhere; besides, I can’t walk,” added Pepsie, feeling a secret satisfaction in enumerating her ills. “But it’s my back; my back’s the worst.”
“What ails it?” asked Lady Jane, with the deepest sympathy in her grave little voice.
“I’ve got a spine in my back, and the doctor says I’ll never get over it. It’s something when you once get it that you can’t be cured of, and it’s mighty bad; but I’ve got used to it now,” and she smiled at Lady Jane; a smile full of patience and resignation. “I wasn’t always so bad,” she went on cheerfully, “before papa died. You see papa was a fireman, and he was killed in a fire when I was very small; but before that he used to take me out in his arms, and sometimes I used to go out in Tante Modeste’s milk-cart—such a pretty cart, painted red, and set up on two high wheels, and in front there are two great cans, as tall as you are, and they shine like silver, and little measures hang on the spouts where the milk comes out, and over the seat is a top just like a buggy top, which they put up when the sun is too hot, or it rains. Oh, it’s just beautiful to sit up on that high seat, and go like the wind! I remember how it felt on my face,” and Pepsie leaned back and closed her eyes in ecstasy, “and then the milk! When I was thirsty, Tante Modeste would give me a cup of milk out of the big can, and it was so sweet and fresh. Some day I’m sure she’ll take you, and then you’ll know how it all was; but I don’t think I shall ever go again, because I can’t bear the jolting; and besides,” said Pepsie, with a very broad smile of satisfaction, “I’m so well off here; I can see everything, and everybody, so I don’t mind; and then I’ve been once, and know just what it’s like to go fast with the wind in my face.”
“I used to ride on my pony with papa,” began Lady Jane, her memory of the past awakened by the description of Pepsie’s drive. “My pony was named Sunflower, now I remember,” and her little face grew radiant, and her eyes sparkled with joy; “papa used to put me on Sunflower, and mama was afraid I’d fall.” Then the brief glow faded out of her face, for she heard Madame Jozain call across the street, “Lady! Lady! Come, child, come. It’s nearly dark, and time you were in bed.”