“And the visiting lady next door,” said Emmy Lou. She did not mean to weep, tears did not come readily to Emmy Lou, but just then her eyes fell upon the handkerchief still held by its exact centre in her hand. What would The Exhibition do without them?
Then Emmy Lou wept.
Late that afternoon a carriage stopped at a corner upon which a school building stood. Since his charges were but infantile affairs, the coloured gentleman on the box thought to expedite matters and drop them at the corner nearest their homes.
Descending, the coloured gentleman flung open the door, and three little girls crept forth, three crushed little girls, three limp little girls, three little girls in a mild kind of mourning.
They came forth timidly. They looked around. They hoped they might reach their homes unobserved.
There was a crowd up the street. A gathering of people—many people. It seemed to be at Emmy Lou’s gate. Hattie and Sadie lived farther on.
“It must be a fire,” said Hattie.
But it wasn’t. It was The Exhibition, the Principal, and Miss Carrie, and teachers and pupils, and mammas and aunties and Uncle Charlie.
“An’ gran’ma—” said Hattie.
“And the visiting lady—” said Emmy Lou.