Owlet was a piteous little object as she sat propped up in a large, white, dimly-covered resting-chair, with her knees and feet wrapped around with a white coverlet. Her face was as pale and thin as a living face could be, and her great, brown eyes, which looked larger than ever in the little, pinched face, had taken on a pathetic, imploring expression which it was very sorrowful to see.
Hanson seemed very good to her. He bought her toys, picture books, trinkets, but she turned away her sick eyes from them all, and pleaded to be taken home to Lady.
Later, when she was well enough to wear them, Hanson bought for her very pretty dresses, hats and coral necklaces and armlets. But she looked at them with weary, indifferent eyes, and prayed to be taken to Lady.
One beautiful, bright Saturday, when she was well enough to go out, Hanson got an open carriage and took her, with the nurse, to Central Park to hear the music.
To almost any child seeing it for the first time, especially on Saturday, with the bands of music and the thousands of children, and the variety of sports, the sunshine, the trees, the flowers, the lakes and ponds, it must have seemed the Garden of Eden revived—a heaven on earth.
But for homesick and heartsick, pale and large-eyed little Owlet it had no pleasures.
“Look how beautiful it is!” said Hanson. “Don’t you like it?”
“Not half as well as Lady’s garden! Oh, take me there!” pleaded the child.
“You shall go as soon as you are well enough,” Hanson answered.
“Listen to the music, my dear. Isn’t it delightful?” suggested the nurse, as the whole brass band struck up some jubilant martial air.