“Yes’m,” assented Steenie, politely, to whom this was as Greek.
“Did you ever go to school, my dear?”
“No. But my father says I may while I’m here. I don’t much care about it.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, ’cause. One thing, it’s in a house, he says, an’ I like out-doors. I never stay in the house, ’cept nights. Here comes Papa! Is breakfast ready? I’m awful hungry.”
Steenie’s manners and speech continually jarred upon Madam Calthorp’s ideas of propriety; and propriety was the rule of her solitary life. But, although she had dreaded this invasion of her quiet by a “noisy child,” and by the son whose many years of absence had made him seem a stranger to her, yet she was impartial enough to acknowledge that there was something very winning and lovable about the little girl.
Breakfast over, mother and son retired to the library to “talk business,” and the other member of the family party was left free to amuse herself as she chose. “Only take care not to meddle, nor get into mischief, darling,” added Mr. Calthorp to his kiss of dismissal.
“Not if I can help it, Papa dear, but ’most ever’thing here seems to be ‘mischief.’ I think I’ll go out-doors.”
Madam did not hear this decision, or she would have forbidden it,—not from any desire to thwart Steenie’s enjoyment, but because the child was not fitly apparelled to appear on the streets of respectable Old Knollsboro, where, though fashions were not advanced, very rigid notions were held of what should or should not be worn.
Bare-headed and in her white frock, still bundled about with the gray cashmere shawl, the little stranger wandered out into the garden, and thence to the street.