Cynthia's eyes grew warm and eager. "Ned, I'm glad—it's no fun searching for old friends with your heart in your throat! We'll step right up and surprise them!"
When they emerged from the ship the perfume of flowers mingled with the richer scent of freshly-turned earth, bringing back memories of their earlier visit.
There had been no flower garden then, but the soil had possessed the same April shower freshness.
"I must look like a fright!" Cynthia said. "You didn't give me time to powder my nose!"
They were within five yards of the dwelling when a door opened and a child of ten or twelve emerged. She was blue-eyed, golden-haired, and she stood for a moment blinking in the evening light, her hair whipped by the wind.
"Mary Sweeney!" Cynthia exclaimed, catching hold of Ned's arm. Then, in a stunned whisper: "Oh, but it can't be! She'd be a grown woman!"
The child straightened at the sound of the voice, looking about. She saw Ned and Cynthia, and blank amazement came into her eyes. Then she gave a little glad cry, and ran toward them, her arms reaching out in welcome.
"You've come back!" she exclaimed. "Mom and dad thought it would be a long time. But I knew you'd come soon! I knew! I was sure!"
Nowhere any sign that this was not the child they had known ten years before! Her voice, the peaches-and-cream color that flooded her cheeks, the way her hair clung in little ringlets to her temples, all struck memory chords from long ago.