Archie's countenance fell. He had not half a dollar in all. He turned sadly away, his head drooping, his lip quivering. Oh, how very hard it was to be poor, he thought, looking enviously at the costly carriage, with a pair of splendid grays, standing before the door.
"Stop, little boy!" said a sweet voice from somewhere among the roses and heliotropes. "Is your mother sick?"
Arch removed his cap—some inborn spirit of courtesy prompting him to be reverent toward the glorious vision which burst upon him. For a moment he thought he saw an angel, and almost expected that she would unfold her silvery wings, and vanish in a golden cloud from his sight. But after the first glimpse he saw that she was a little girl about his own age—eight or nine years, perhaps—with yellow curls, deep hazel eyes, a mouth like a rosebud, and a blue silk frock. She repeated the question:
"Is your mother sick, little boy?"
"No, she is not sick, for she always sits up, and sews. But she is not strong, and her cheeks never have any color in them, like yours."
"And does she love flowers?"
"Yes, she loves them dearly. She kisses them always, when she has any. And that's not often."
"Does she? That's nice. Just like I do!" said the little girl, in a pleased voice. "Mr. Burns"—to the gruff clerk—"here is a dollar. Give me some real nice roses, and two or three sweet pinks. The lady shall have some flowers. Tell her I sent them."
"Who shall I say sent them?"
"Margie Harrison. Will she know me, think?"