The child had fair hair, falling in fleecy waves to its shoulders, but more or less tangled and neglected. It had delicate features, rosy cheeks, and round blue eyes. When these eyes were grave—which was seldom—there were questions in them; when they smiled—which was often—sunbeams rippled over their blue surfaces. For clothing the child wore garments of pure white, which reached from the neck to the ankles, and had wide flowing sleeves and legs, like those of a youngster's pajamas. The little one's head and feet were bare, but the pink soles were protected by sandals fastened with straps across the toes and ankles.
"IT'S THE CHERUB"
"Good morning," said John, again smiling and hoping he had not stared too rudely. "It gives me great pleasure to meet you."
"My name's Chick," replied the child, laughing in sweet trills, while the blue eyes regarded the gingerbread man with evident wonder.
"That's a funny name," said John.
"Yes, it is funny," the child agreed, with a friendly nod. "Chick means a chicken, you know. But I'm not a chicken."
"Of course not," returned John. "A chicken is covered with feathers. And you are not."