“Oh! ’Xcuse me. I thought you were Mrs. Dutton.”
“Well, I’m not. Go away. Draw that curtain again. Go back to your folks. Your mother should know better than to let you roam about the sleeper at night.”
“My mother knows—everything!” said Josephine, loyally. “I’m dreadful sorry you’re not Mrs. Dutton, ’cause she’d have tooken off my coat and things. My coat is new. My mamma wouldn’t like me to sleep in it. But the buttons stick. I can’t undo it.”
“Go to your mother, child. I don’t wish to be annoyed.”
“I can’t, ’cause she’s over seas, big Bridget says, to that red-pickle country. I s’pose I’ll have to, then. Good-night. I hope you’ll rest well.”
The lady in the red kimono did not feel as if she would. She was always nervous in a sleeping-car, anyway; and what did the child mean by “over seas in the red-pickle country”? Was it possible she was travelling alone? Were there people in the world so foolish as to allow such a thing?
After a few moments of much thinking, the lady rose, carefully adjusted her kimono, and stepped to Josephine’s berth. The child lay holding the curtains apart, much to the disgust of the person overhead, and gazing at the lamp above. Her cheeks were wet, her free hand clutched Rudanthy, and the expression of her face was one that no woman could see and not pity.
“My dear little girl, don’t cry. I’ve come to take off your cloak. Please sit up a minute.”
“Oh, that’s nice! Thank you. I—I—if mamma”—
“I’ll try to do what mamma would. There. It’s unfastened. Such a pretty coat it is, too. Haven’t you a little gown of some sort to put on?”