“Pretty good, and pretty well deserved too, my lad,” said the gentleman, who had been standing below, coming up the stairs. “See here, Clara, here is the Queen of the Fairies, I believe,” and he turned around to a lady who ran lightly up behind him.
“Queen of the Fairies, indeed,” said the lady, with a laughing look at the little figure before her, in its white dress and shining hair, and lap covered with brilliant flowers: “or Queen of the”—What she would have said was lost, for after a pause of astonishment she exclaimed, “Why! it is—yes, it is Bessie Bradford—dear little Bessie!”
And regardless of her muslin dress with its fluted flounces and ruffles, down went the lady on the stairs before Bessie; and, greatly to her surprise, the little girl found herself held fast in the embrace of a supposed stranger.
But it was no stranger, as she found when she could free herself a little from that tight clasp, and look in the lady’s face.
“Don’t you know me, Bessie?” asked the lady.
“Why! it’s Miss Adams!” cried Bessie, in as great amazement as the new-comer herself.
“And you are a little glad to see me, are you not?” asked the lady, seeing with pleasure the smile and glow on Bessie’s face.
“Not a little, but very, Miss Adams,” she replied. “I was very interested about you, and always thought I’d like to see you again after I heard you’d”—here she hesitated for a word.
“Well,” said the lady.
“I can’t think of the word,” said Bessie. “Oh, yes! reformed, that’s it,—after you’d reformed. You know you wrote and told us about it yourself.”