MABEL looked in dismay at Rosa Marie.
"Where do you s'pose your mother is?" she demanded.
It was useless, however, to question Rosa Marie. That stolid young person was as uncommunicative as what Marjory called "the little stuffed Indians in the Washington Museum." The Indians to whom Marjory referred were made of wax. Rosa Marie seemed more like a little wooden Indian. The countenance of little Anne Halliday changed with every moment; but Rosa Marie's wore only one expression. Perhaps it had only one to wear.
"I say," said Mabel, gently shaking her small brown charge by the shoulders, "where does your mother usually go when she isn't home?"
A surprised grunt was the only response.
Rosa Marie, too suddenly released, sat heavily on the ground, thoughtfully scratched up the surface and filled her lap with handfuls of loose, unattractive earth.
"Goodness! What an untidy child!" cried Mabel, snatching her up and shaking her, although Rosa Marie's weight made her youthful guardian stagger. "I wanted your mother to see you clean, for once. Here, sit on this stick of wood. I s'pose we'll just have to wait and wait until somebody comes. Well, sit in the sand if you want to. I'm tired of picking you up."
Rosa Marie's home was in rather an attractive spot. The big, quiet lake was smooth as glass, and every object along its picturesque bank was mirrored faithfully in the quiet depths. The western sky was faintly tinged with red. Against it the spires and tall roofs of the town stood out sharply; but at this quiet hour they seemed very far away.
Mabel, seated on the wooden box that she had placed under the window, leaned back against the house and clasped her hands about her knees, while she gazed dreamily at the picture and listened with enjoyment to the faint lap of the quiet water on the pebbled beach.
Both Mabel and Rosa Marie had had a busy day. Both had taken unusual exercise. And now all the sights and sounds were soothing, soothing.