"She cried somethin' terrible 'cause you was sick."
The memory seemed to make the small piquant nose tingle, for Blanche Aurora wiggled it and snapped the china-blue eyes.
"She cries a good deal, I suppose."
"She never cries," declared the small maid indignantly. "Why should anybody that can have anythin' in the world and do anythin' in the world cry? I didn't know Miss Linda could cry; but her beau came over—"
The gray eyes lifted again, for a moment, but the convalescent's appetite appeared to be still ravenous.
"—And she was walkin' with him, and she come into the house and told Miss Barry you was sick, and—" Again Blanche Aurora's nose and lips wiggled in grievous reminiscence.
"Do you mean Mr. Frederick Whitcomb?"
"That's him. He told me he was her beau, but I guess he ain't no longer. I don't believe"—a shrewd look coming into the blue gazing eyes—"I don't believe she'd cry like that about him, 'cause she never does cry." The addition was made with a return of indignation. "She's the beautifulest, kindest lady in the whole world."
"H'm," mumbled King, over an extra large spoonful.
"She give me this dress"—the speaker grasped a fold of the azure gingham—"and a pink one, too, and ribbons. She used to wear the dresses herself, 'fore her pa died. When she come here first I looked like a scarecrow."