“Do you like yourself, little Ann?” Lynda had asked when, at last, a charming hat was placed upon the dark curls.
There was no word of reply—only the wide, helpless stare—and, to cover her confusion, Lynda hurried away to Betty.
The maid who admitted her said that “Mrs. Kendall was upstairs in the nursery with the baby.”
Lynda paused on the stairs and asked blankly: “The baby? What baby?”
The maid was a trusted one and close to Betty.
“The little boy from the Home, Mrs. Truedale,” she replied, “and already the house is cheerfuller.”
Lynda felt a distinct disappointment. She had hoped that Betty would care for little Ann for a few days, but how could she ask it of her now?
In the sunny room upstairs Betty sat in a low rocker, crooning away to a restless bundle in her arms.
“You, Lyn?” Lynda stood in the doorway; Betty’s back was to her.
“Yes, Betty.”