A little girl of six or eight, her chubby cheeks aglow with the cold of the winter twilight, a mass of brown curls escaping from her hat framing a pretty face, stood looking at him—he was still on his knees—with wide, wondering eyes. He had expected to welcome a young woman of twenty, he told me afterwards, not a child. Aunt Nancy inadvertently, perhaps, or because she supposed he knew, had omitted any reference to her age. I, too, had fallen into the same error.
The dear lady without rising from her seat held out her two hands joyously:
“Oh, you darling little thing! Come here until I take off your hat and coat.”
The Colonel had now risen to his feet, the ball of yarn in his hand, his eyes still on the apparition. No child had ever stepped foot inside the cosy quarters since his occupation. Katy returned his gaze with that steadfast, searching look common to some children, summing up by intuition the dangers and the man. Then, with her face breaking into a smile at the Colonel, she started towards Aunt Nancy.
But the Colonel had come to his senses now.
“So you are not a grown-up lady at all,” he cried, with a joyous note in his voice, as he advanced towards her, “but just a dear little girl.”
“Why, did you think I was grown-up? I’m only seven. Oh, what a nice room, and is the Christmas tree here?”
“It is not lighted yet, dearie,” replied Aunt Nancy, her fingers busy with the top button of the child’s cloak, the eager, expectant face twisted around as if she was looking for something. “It’s over there in the corner.”
“Let me show it to you,” said the Colonel, and he took her hand. “Major, please bring one of the candles.”