"Now I must go," said the beautiful one. "I want to take one last walk round your pretty Bloemfontein, because I am going back to Cape Town to-morrow."
"Have you any little girls in Cape Town?" asked Poppy, wishing to detain her a little longer. She laughed at that.
"You funny child! Why I'm not even married. But I'm going to be, and to the most fascinating man in Africa."
"Is his name Lancelot?"
"No. His name is Nick Capron. How old are you, child?"
"Nine."
"Only nine! You look about thirteen, you poor little thing. Well, good-bye, I must really go."
"Good-bye; and thank you so much for speaking to me," Poppy stammered. She felt that she could adore the beautiful study in brown holland, who only laughed at her again and went on her way.
But Poppy, sitting on her rock had a gleam of hope and happiness; for at last she knew the secret of being beautiful; and—it had been told her—her eyes were pretty.
She sat thinking for a long time and making resolutions. She even determined to strive to hate Aunt Lena less. Minor resolutions were—not to be unkind to the children when they made her angry and told tales on her; not to quarrel with her two elder cousins, Clara and Emily; not to scratch them and beat them with her fists when they called her Foelstruis,[1] because her legs were so long and thin; not to fly into awful rages in which she could not speak, only shake all over and bite her hands and lips till the blood came; not to sit and think of Aunt Lena's ways until a red curtain came down before her eyes and her heart felt like a red-hot coal burning her to death.