“Uncles don’t need cards when their folks come to see them. I’ve come from mamma. She’s gone to the pickley land to see papa. Just tell him Josephine. What’s that stuff out there?”
She ran to the window, pulled the lace curtains apart, and peered out. The air was now full of great white flakes that whirled and skurried about as if in the wildest sort of play.
“What is it, Peter? Quick, what is it?” she demanded.
“Huh! Don’t you know snow when you see it, little missy? Where you lived at all your born days?” he cried, surprised.
“Oh, just snow. Course I’ve seen it, coming here on the cars. It was on the ground, though, not in the air and the sky. I’ve lived with mamma. Now I’ve come to live with Uncle Joe. Why don’t you tell him? If a lady called to see my mamma do you s’pose big Bridget wouldn’t say so?”
“I’se goin’,” he said, and went.
But he was gone so long, and the expected uncle was so slow to welcome her, that even that beautiful room began to look dismal to the little stranger. The violent storm which had sprung up with such suddenness, darkened the air, and a terrible homesickness threatened to bring on a burst of tears. Then, all at once, Josephine remembered what Doctor Mack had said:
“Don’t be a weeper, little lady, whatever else you are. Be a smiler, like my Cousin Helen, your mamma. You’re pretty small to tackle the world alone, but just do it with a laugh and it will laugh back upon you.”
Not all of which she understood, though she recalled every one of the impressive words, but the “laughing part” was plain enough.
“Course, Rudanthy. No Uncle Joe would be glad to get a crying little girl to his house. I’ll take off my coat and yours, darling. You are pretty tired, I guess. I wonder where they’ll let us sleep, that black boy and my uncle. I hope the room will have a pretty fire in it, like this one. Don’t you?”