“A kind of one,” replied Desiré gently, “but it’s getting better now; so go on with what you were doing, darling.”
The child returned to the corner of the room where he had been making a wagon from spools and a pasteboard box, while Priscilla murmured, “I’ll try not to fuss about things.”
“That’s a brave girl,” commended her sister. “Now, you’ve been in all day; so suppose you run down to see Felice for a little while. Maybe you’ll meet Jack on the way home, but don’t wait for him later than half past five.”
The little girl was almost out of sight when Desiré’s attention was diverted to the opposite direction by the sound of an automobile, apparently coming from Digby. Motor cars were still sufficiently new in Nova Scotia to excuse her waiting to see it pass. Only the well-to-do people owned them, and she had never even had a ride in one. There were rumors that possibly that very summer a bus line would be run to the various interesting parts of the country for the convenience of tourists from the States. Then she might be able to ride a little way, if it didn’t cost too much, just to see how it felt.
A ramshackle Ford jerked to a sudden halt right in front of the house, and a tall, thin man backed carefully out from the driver’s seat and ambled up the path toward her.
“Mademoiselle Wistmore?” he inquired, bashfully removing his blue woolen cap and thrusting it under his arm.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“My name’s Pierre Boisdeau,” he drawled, taking the cap out from under his arm and rolling it nervously between his two big hands.
“Yes?” replied Desiré encouragingly.
“I have a message for you,” pushing the long-suffering cap into his pocket as he spoke.