Mrs. Colter gazed at her hostess wide-eyed. "Oh, it's grand!" she breathed. "—Barbara, come!"
"I'm coming."
On flagging feet, the child came out. She was small—not over nine at the most—with thin little legs, and a figure too slender for her years. Her dress was a gingham, very much faded. One untied lace of her patched shoes whipped from side to side as she walked.
But it was not the poorness of her dress that made her a pathetic picture as she halted, looking at Mrs. Colter. It was her face—a grave, little face, thin, and lacking childish color. Upon it were a few stray, pale freckles.
Yet it was not a plain face, and about it fell her hair, brown and abundant, in gleaming curls and waves. Her eyes were lovely—large, and a dark, almost a purplish, blue. They were wise beyond the age of their owner, and sad. They told of tears shed, of wordless appeal, but also of patient endurance of little troubles. Her brows had an upward turn at the center which gave her a quaint, questioning look. Her mouth was tucked in at either corner, lending a wistful expression that was habitual.
"Barbara, come, hurry," urged Mrs. Colter, holding out the child's hat.
But Barbara hung back. "Where's Aunt Clare?" she asked.
"I tell you, Aunt Clare ain't home yet."
Now, Barbara retreated. "Oh, I want to stay here, to see her. Please, please."
"Look how you act!" complained Mrs. Colter, helplessly.