She was gone; Mrs. Damian looked after her complacently.
“They call her ‘Oriole,’ I believe, or some such name. She certainly moves like a bird. Your daughter will have to do her possible, Mrs. Desmond, to win the race.”
“Pat’s legs are longer,” said Helena Desmond judicially, “but the little one has the pace. I shall put my money on her.”
Whither had Honor flown? To the garden gate, that opening from the kitchen garden, in which three figures now appeared. Two of them were tall, massive figures of women, resplendent in full Swiss costume, their broad, comely faces alight with pleasure: the third, that of a boy, slight and delicate, walking with crutches.
“Zitli! Gretli! Oh, I am so glad, so glad to see you! Oh, how angelic of you to come!”
“And we, then, my little mademoiselle!” cried Gretli, seizing the outstretched hands. “Are we glad, do you suppose? Eh, Zitli? Have we missed her, our little guest? Say then, thou!”
Zitli nodded emphatically.
“As one misses the sunlight!” he said. “We are happy to be here, mademoiselle. We come to see you win the apples—which behold!” he added, drawing a parcel from his pocket. “May I not show them, my Sister?”
“But no! certainly not!” Gretli shook her head vehemently. “I must take them at once to Madame. Well then,” seeing the disappointment in both faces, “it may be that a tiny peep—since after all it is Mademoiselle Honor who will finally possess them—But turn thy back, that no one else see!”
Shaking out their wide skirts, the sisters stood before Honor and Zitli, screening them effectively from sight. Eagerly Zitli opened the neat wooden box; eagerly Honor bent forward, to peep at the trophy, the three golden apples shining on their bed of green satin.