"I used to think," continued Jean, "that you was the most unhappy girl I ever saw, and it made me feel so sorry, 'cause I thought it must be somebody's fault, and then I wanted to kiss you, or something, but you always looked so, I didn't know whether you'd like it or not, and so I never did."
"But I would have been glad," said Olive, who could remember very well the many times she had frozen the little girl's loving advances.
"I'll tell you why I was so unhappy, Jeanie; I thought no body loved me, and that I was in the way."
"Why, Olive! Olive!" cried Jean in greatest amaze. "How could you think so; who made you?"
"I made myself," said Olive. "I was so cross, that I made you all stay away from me, and then I thought it was because no one cared for me, because I was so ugly."
"You wasn't pretty then," was Jean's honest remark. "But you are now, really, and so splendid looking some way. You haven't got rosy cheeks like Miss Foster, nor yellow hair like Ernestine, but somehow I love to look at you, and so does Cousin Roger, 'cause sometimes when you are drawing, he just looks right straight at you all the whole time."
"Does he?" laughed Olive, and then revealed the utter want of romance in her nature, by never giving the complimentary fact another thought. "I'll tell you something, Jean, if you'll not repeat it."
"Oh, no, Olive, never!"
"Well, I'm drawing Cousin Roger's head."
"You are, and he don't know it?"