"Oh!" cried the little girl in a burst of happiness, "there's my boy!"
The next minute she had leaped out of the carriage and was bounding across the pavement. Her arms were filled with azalea, and loosened petals fluttered like a swarm of pink and white moths around her.
"What are you doing, boy?" she asked. "Where is your basket?"
"It's at the market. I'm selling papers."
"Come, Sally," commanded Miss Mitty, stepping out of the surrey with the rest of the flowers. "You must not stop in the street to talk to people you don't know."
"But I do know him, Aunt Mitty, he brings our marketing."
"Well, come in anyway. You are breaking the flowers."
The strong, heady perfume filled my nostrils, though when I remember it now it changes to the scent of wallflowers, which clings always about my memory of the old grey house, with its delicate lace curtains draped back from the small square window-panes as if a face looked out on the crooked pavement.
"Please, Aunt Mitty, let me buy a paper," begged the child.
"A paper, Sally! What on earth would you do with a paper?"