He had not stirred from his place. His eyes were following her, half doubting.... She was not more real than some of the visions that had haunted his tired eyes.... But much more charming!
She confronted the closed door for a moment with a little air of triumph. Then she nodded at it and turned and came toward him across the room, her face lifted.
But still he did not speak. He had moistened his lips a little with his tongue and his breath came quickly.
She seated herself on a packing box that served as a chair and crossed her fat legs at the ankle. She nodded gravely. “I am Ellen,” she said in a clear, sweet voice, “Who are you?”
He moistened his lips again, still staring. Then a humorous light crept into his eyes. “I am—Simeon,” he said gravely.
She nodded again. “I like Cinnamon. Granny makes them—round ones—cookies. I like ’em.”
“And who is Grannie?” he asked.
“She is—Grannie,” replied the child. “Do you live here?” Her direct eyes were on his face.
“Yes, I—live—here.” He said the words slowly and a little sadly.
“Who does your work?” she asked promptly.