And in the black-and-white of her shirt-waist suit there was no more suggestion of mourning than there is thought of winter in full June—rich, warm, full of promise, "unremembering June," the present and future tenses of the year's declension.
As she stood biting the baby, Reno understood why. His look devoured her.
Seeing him, her eyes only gave greeting, and, smiling, directed his to the group of animated children's overalls in a sand-pile in front of her. One particular occupant of one particular pair of overalls spied him. Lola flew. He held her off, brown, round, rosy. "Why, who is this? Whose little girl—or boy—are you?"
Her head dropped; she dropped from his hand like a nipped flower.
"Whose little girl are you?" coached a rich voice with an undercurrent of laughter.
Like a flower again, the child swayed at the breath of that elemental nature. "Dandie's little girl," ventured a small voice. At sight of the father's face, Molly laughed, a laugh of many significances. And with a flood of recollected loyalty, "Papa's!" gasped the child, and smothered him with remorse.
"Wouldn't you like to be Dandie's and papa's little girl all at once?"
("Well! I like that!")
"Why, yes. Ain't I? Can't I?"
"I think you can."