She obeyed him, but shivered afresh as she did so. The next moment she was so warm she ran to the window and thrust her head out of it. Peter drew her back and closed the sash with a bang. Then he led her to the washstand and made a futile attempt to brush her tangled curls.
“Never mind, good Peter. I can do it. I’m sorry I went to sleep. Has Uncle Joe wanted me?” she interrupted.
“Reckon he has, honey. He done suffer terrible. He like to hear you sing them songs again, likely.”
“Well, I will, if I’m not too tired,” she answered.
The butler looked at her anxiously. Was she going to be sick? If she were, whatever could he do with her? A sick man—that was one thing; but a sick little girl, that was quite another matter. She would have to go, he feared, and to lose her now would seem very hard.
After all, she did not appear ill. She laughed and apologized so sweetly to her would-be-angry host that he forgot his indignation and forgave her on the spot. Only warned her gravely that he was a man who meant exactly what he said, and intended anybody belonging to him should do the same. One hour was never two; and, in case they never came across that missing uncle of hers, he supposed she would have to stay where she was until such time as her own parents could claim her; ending his lecture with the question:
“Would she remember?”
She’d promise to try and remember; and would he like to hear all about what a lovely, lovely time she had had? Did he know what snow felt like? Had he ever ridden and ridden till he couldn’t see, and been dumped into high banks and buried underneath the soft, cold stuff, till he was nearly smothered, and got his stockings all wet, and shouted till he couldn’t shout another shout? Had he? she cried.
“I suppose I have. Many, many years ago. But wet stockings? Have you got such on your little feet?” he anxiously asked.
Then, though he shrank from contact with anything damp or cold, fearing fresh pangs to himself, he drew off her shoe and felt the moist but now hot, little foot within.