Gertrude showed her disappointment. Chee watched her and yielded, exclaiming, “Well, you must be awful proud of him to feel so bad. I suppose I’d ought to come.”
Cousin Gertrude’s cheeks grew pinker, but she did not look displeased; she only held out her hand to Chee. Wondering what she might say to put the little girl more at ease, she led her to the veranda.
A gentleman was standing by the carriage block, stroking the mane of a horse. At sight of Chee he quickly removed his hat, as though to some fine lady. “So this is little Chee,” said he, “our sweet singer, only she doesn’t really sing, she plays. Good morning, my dear.”
“Good morning. I don’t know just what to call you yet. It doesn’t seem quite kind to say ‘Mr. Farrar,’ when you are Cousin Gertrude’s best friend, does it? She calls you ‘my Herman,’ but I’m afraid she’d rather I wouldn’t say that, too.”
Mr. Farrar was pleased with this artlessness, characteristic of Chee, so unlike any boldness, so like open confidence in one she instinctively recognized to be worthy. Her voice at such times seemed to say, “I’ll trust you, you may trust me.”
His eyes twinkled, but he said gravely, seeming not to notice Gertrude, “Suppose you compromise, and say ‘our Herman.’”
Chee gave a perplexed glance toward Gertrude. Suddenly a smile brightened her face, as she exclaimed, “Oh, I’ve got it. Why didn’t we think before? S’pose I call you ‘Cousin Herman.’” She gave no opportunity for dissent before adding, “It’s so much more comfortable, now I know who you are.”
Cousin Gertrude appeared somewhat confused, but her friend patted the little girl’s head approvingly, saying, “Quite right, little Chee, the very thing, indeed—”
“But Birdie,” hastily interrupted Gertrude, “we haven’t thanked you yet.” The child cast furtive glances toward the house. Her companions changed the conversation. Their eyes, following hers, had seen others, steel blue, peering through a lace curtain.
“Is Aunt Mean busy?” asked Gertrude.