Miss Eliza Tallman stood waiting for her guests on the steps of the white cottage that was separated from the street by an old-fashioned flower garden, now glowing in its prime.
Miss Liza herself was as wholesome and sweet and crisp as the row of pinks that bordered the walk and sent their spicy odors out upon the warm summer air. Miss Liza was round and plump. Her crinkly brown hair, with only a few threads of gray, was drawn into a round little knob at the back of her head. Her eyes, round and blue, looked out pleasantly from behind round gold spectacles. She stood, absently smoothing down her stiffly starched white apron, until she caught sight of the children, and then she waved her hand in greeting.
“I’m glad to see you,” she called softly.
And something in the quiet voice made Susan remember to close the gate behind her gently instead of letting it swing shut with a slam.
“Sit right down here on the porch steps and put on your slippers. Miss Lunette feels right well to-day, and she wants you to come up and see her before dinner.”
And Miss Liza smiled so warmly at little Phil that he cheered up immediately. Going to see Miss Lunette couldn’t be very dreadful if Miss Liza looked so pleasant about it.
Up the steep stairs they toiled softly, and were ushered into a room so darkened that, coming from the glare of the sun outside, it was at first difficult to see anything.
But Phil at length made out a figure, wrapped in a shawl this warm summer day, seated in a cushioned rocking-chair, and felt a cool, slim hand take his own for an instant. He looked timidly into the face above him and saw with a lightened heart that Miss Lunette was not dreadful at all, that she didn’t look in the least as he had expected and feared to see her look.
And in the fullness of his heart, little Phil spoke out.
“Why, you are pretty,” said he to Miss Lunette.