Standing behind her, under the amber glow of the big silk shaded copper lamp, Jean sang softly, and all at once, her voice broke.
“What is it?” asked Bab, glancing up. “Tired?”
Jean’s lashes were wet with tears.
“I was wishing Mother were here too,” she answered. “She loves all this so—just as I do. It’s awfully lonesome up there sometimes without any of this.”
Bab reached up impulsively and threw her arms around her.
“I knew it,” she whispered. “I told Mother just from your letters that you had Gileaditis and must come down.”
“Gileaditis?” laughed Jean. “That’s funny. Kit would love it. And it’s what I have got too. I love the hills and the freedom, but, oh, it is so lonely. Why, I love even to hear the elevated whiz by, and the sound of the wheels on the paved streets again.”
“Jean Robbins,” Bab said solemnly. “You’re not a country robin at all, you’re a city sparrow.”
CHAPTER VI
“ARROWS OF LONGING”
Jean slept late the next morning, late for a Greenacre girl at least. Kit’s alarm clock was warranted to disturb anybody’s most peaceful slumbers at 6 A. M. sharp, but here, with curtains drawn, and the studio as warm as toast, Jean slept along until eight when Justine came softly into the large room to pull back the heavy curtains, and say chocolate and toast were nearly ready.