Ardelia looked blank.
“Huh?” she said.
“Gather them. Get a bunch. Oh, you poor child! Mrs. Slater, she doesn’t know how!” Miss Forsythe was deeply moved and illustrated by picking imaginary daisies on the porch. Ardelia’s quick eyes followed her gestures, and stooping, she scooped the heads from three daisies and started back with them, staring distrustfully into the depths of the thick clinging grass as she pushed through it. Miss Forsythe gasped.
“No, no, dear! Pull them up! Take the stem, too,” she explained. “Pick the whole flower!”
Ardelia bent over again, tugged at a thick-stemmed clover, brought it up by the roots, recovered her balance with difficulty, and assaulted a neighboring daisy. On this she cut her hands, and sucking off the blood angrily, she grabbed a handful of coarse grass, and plowing through the tangled mass about her feet, laid the spoils awkwardly on the young lady’s lap.
Miss Forsythe stared at the dirty, trailing roots that stained her linen skirt and sighed.
“Thank you, dear,” she said politely, “but I meant them for you. I meant you to have a bunch. Don’t you want them?”
“Naw!” said Ardelia decidedly, nursing her cut hand and stepping with relief on the smooth floor of the porch.
Miss Forsythe’s eyes brightened suddenly.
“I know what you want,” she cried, “you’re thirsty! Mrs. Slater, won’t you get us some of your good, creamy milk? Don’t you want a drink, Ardelia?”