The little girl waited half a minute. No one else had noticed the loss. At any time an usher might come down the aisle and crush the exquisite jewel. Mollie forgot herself and her shyness. If it had been Barbara she would not have minded, but Mollie was timid before strangers. She slipped quietly across the aisle and picked up the butterfly.
“I beg your pardon,” her soft voice explained, “but I saw this fall from your hair, and, as you did not notice it, I was afraid it might be crushed.”
The lovely woman turned in surprise. It is just as well to call her “the lovely lady,” now, for that was Mollie’s name for her ever afterwards.
“My dear,” she said, “I am very grateful to you. How could I have failed to see it? I am especially obliged to you, because I am very fond of this ornament.”
Mollie blushed rosy-red, as the people close to them had observed what had happened and were watching her. As she tried to slip over to her seat, the lady reached out and gave the child’s hand a gentle squeeze of thanks, glancing across as she did so to see what friends the little girl was with, and so caught Ruth Stuart’s eye.
The intermission came at this minute.
“Why, Ruth Stuart!” Mollie, to her surprise, heard her friend’s name called in a low voice, and Ruth came across to them.
“It’s Mrs. Cartwright,” she said. “I am so pleased! I didn’t suppose you would remember me.”
“Of course I remember you, Ruth,” Mrs. Cartwright protested. “It has been only two years since I saw you at my own wedding in Chicago. My memory is surely longer than that. Isn’t that your aunt, Miss Stuart?” Mrs. Cartwright moved across the aisle to speak to Miss Sallie and to introduce her husband. When they had shaken hands, Mrs. Cartwright asked: “May I know what you are doing in this part of the world at this season?”
“I am playing chaperon to my madcap niece and her three friends, who are doing an automobile trip to Newport without a man. Ruth is her own chauffeur,” Miss Sallie explained, laughing.