Whereupon, Blue Bonnet subsided. Gradually the little pucker of irritation the thought of Boyd had called up disappeared; the vague feeling of discontent and longing of the morning had disappeared, too, by now. She felt very grateful to Alec. She had been just in the mood for—almost anything in the way of mischief; and then—to-night, it would have been like that Saturday night, two weeks ago, all over again. Only this time, how could Grandmother and Aunt Lucinda have believed her honestly in earnest, have felt that she was ever to be depended on?
She was glad now that she had done her dusting and mending—so long as Grandmother and Aunt Lucinda were so keen about it. And at the same time, somewhere in the back of her mind was the dim remembrance of something that had been left undone, a remembrance which, in her present drowsy condition, she was perfectly willing should remain in the back of her mind.
And when, presently, Grandmother spoke to her, Blue Bonnet was fast asleep.
“She should be in bed,” Miss Lucinda said, as Mrs. Clyde got up to lay a light afghan over the curled-up figure among the cushions.
“She will probably rouse up in a few moments,” Mrs. Clyde answered. “I remember how I used to enjoy such a little nap before the fire at her age.”
“What is Blue Bonnet’s age?” Miss Lucinda asked, half gravely, half laughingly. “It would seem to be as variable as the weather, ranging all the way from six years to normal, but striking the latter point very seldom.”
“Are you in a hurry to have her grow up, Lucinda?”
Miss Lucinda was rather long in answering this question. “Not to grow up—as you put it,” she said at last. “I should like to see her become more responsible. She will be sixteen in June.”
Mrs. Clyde glanced at the sleeping face. “We must trust to time, and—the grace of God.”
Miss Lucinda glanced also at the flushed face in its frame of tangled hair. Blue Bonnet asleep looked more childish than ever; and yet—