“Was it mother said you was to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Then mother did tell me a——” Sibyl left off abruptly, her poor little face quivered. The suffering in her eyes was so keen that Miss Winstead did not dare to meet them. They went for a walk in the park, and Sibyl talked in her most proper style, but she did not say any of the nice, queer, interesting things she was, as a rule, noted for. Instead, she told Miss Winstead dry, uninteresting little facts, with regard to her visit to the country.
“I hear you have got a pony,” said Miss Winstead.
“I don’t want to talk about my pony, please,” interrupted Sibyl. “Let me tell you just what were the most perfect views near the place we were in.”
“But why may we not talk about your pony?”
“I don’t want to ride my pony now.”
Miss Winstead was alarmed about the child.
“You have walked quite far enough to-night,” she said, “you look very white.”
“I’m not a scrap tired, I never felt better in my life. Do let us go to the toy-shop.”