“Oh, the lovely, lovely doll!” she cried, and then hid her face on his shoulder.
“Hallo,” said Tom, hugging her, “what is she hiding her eyes for?”
She nestled closer to him with a little sob of loving delight.
“Because—because of the doll,” she answered, bewildered by her own little demonstration and yet perfect in her confidence that he would understand her.
“Well,” said Tom, cheerfully, “that’s a queer thing, ain’t it? Look here, did you know it was your birthday? Five years old to-day—think of that.”
He sat down and settled her in her usual place on his knee, her doll in her arms.
“To think,” he said, “of her setting up a birthday on purpose to be five years old and have a doll given her. That’s a nice business, ain’t it?”
After they had breakfasted together in state, the doll was carried into the store to be played with there. It was a wet day, and, the air being chilled by a heavy mountain rain, a small fire was burning in the stove, and by this fire the two settled themselves to enjoy the morning together, the weather precluding the possibility of their being disturbed by many customers. But in the height of their quiet enjoyment they were broken in upon by the sound of horse’s hoofs splashing in the mud outside and Mr. Stamps’s hat appeared above the window-sill.
It was Sheba who saw it first, and in the strength of her desire to avoid the wearer, she formed a desperate plan. She rose so quietly that Tom, who was reading a paper, did not hear her, and, having risen, drew her small chair behind the counter in the hope that, finding her place vacant, the visitor would not suspect her presence.
In this she was not disappointed. Having brushed the mud from his feet on the porch, Mr. Stamps appeared at the doorway, and, after his usual precautionary glance about him, made his way to the stove. His manner was at once propitiatory and friendly. He drew up a chair and put his wet feet on the stove, where they kept up a comfortable hissing sound as they dried.