“Certainly,” said Blanche, looking at Bessie, and thinking what a lovely face it must have been before that strange light came to those eyes—eyes of a wonderful blue, fringed with such heavy black lashes.
The long silken hair was floating about Bessie’s shoulders, and, lifting one thick lock, Blanche said:
“Your hair is wonderfully beautiful, Bessie.”
“There, now, Miss Robin, don’t you tell me that. I don’t believe a word of it. He used to just go wild over my hair, and for a long time I believed it, but now I know he is a——”
“What?”
“A liar. There, you made me say it, and I didn’t mean to. I know it was wicked, but you made me say it. But, now, don’t you tell Ross, for if you do, Miss Robin—off goes your head.”
Blanche smiled at Bessie’s droll remark.
“Oh, you need not laugh. I can take your head off in a minute, because, you see, you are only just a wee little robin, and one little shot would kill you dead.”
“But you would not kill a robin, would you?”
“Not if the robin kept still.”