"This is Rose. Rose, this is our little chatter-box."
"Now, Uncle Joe! Come right in, Rose. I'm going to call you Rose, mayn't I?"
Mrs. Thatcher, a tall thin woman, welcomed Rose in sober fashion, and led the way into the little parlor, which seemed incredibly elegant to the shy girl.
She sat silently while the rest moved about her. There was a certain dignity in this reserve, and both Mrs. Thatcher and Josie were impressed by it. She was larger and handsomer than either of them and that gave her an advantage, though she did not realize that. She was comparing in swift, disparaging fashion her heavy boots with their dainty soft shoes, and wondering what she could do to escape from them.
"Josie, take her right up to her room," said Mrs. Thatcher, "and let her get ready for dinner."
"Yes, come up, you must feel like a good scrub."
Rose flushed again, wondering if her face had grown grimy enough to be noticeable.
The young girl led Rose into a pretty room with light green walls, and lovely curtains at the windows. There were two dainty little beds occupying opposite corners.
"We're to occupy this room together," said Josie. "This is my dressing case and that's yours."
Rose saw at once Josie had given her the best one. Josie bustled about helping her lay off her things, pouring water for her and talking on with gleeful flow.