“Steenie, why have you put on a white frock on such a day as this?”
“Why?” repeated the puzzled visitor. “It’s a clean one, only wrinkled in the packing.”
“But—a white dress in April! It is wholly out of place. You will get sick, and have to be taken care of. Take it off at once.”
All the gayety died out of the child’s face, rosy from recent scrubbings with soap and water, and radiant with health, and a look of strange perplexity succeeded. “I—I can’t, Grandmother. I haven’t any other.”
“No—other—frock!”
“Not that is clean. My car one is ter’ble dirty an’ dusty. My father says it isn’t fit to wear any more; and my horseback one isn’t unpacked; an’ my rest are just like this. I’m sorry if it isn’t right;” with a deprecatory little gesture that appealed strangely to Madam Calthorp’s cold heart.
“Well, well! Do you wear such clothes as these all winter in California?”
“Yes; I do. My father says ’at white is the only ’propriate color for a little girl.”
“White is not a color, Steenie. Learn to be accurate. But—go and ask Mary Jane to give you my gray cashmere shawl, then put it on directly. If you have no suitable clothes, some must be procured for you.”
“Yes’m,” answered Steenie, obediently, and ran away,—to return presently, sheathed in a great gray calyx, from which her flower-like face peered mischievously out. Then her father’s steps were heard descending the stairs, slowly, and the child darted off, once more, to clasp his arm with a vigor that denoted deep emotion. “Oh, Papa, it was too bad we came! Do you know she doesn’t want us? My pretty, very own Grandmother! She doesn’t say so, but I know it. She doesn’t!”