It was then that I first saw Mamie and Anne.
Mamie looked her part. She was pallid, rather pretty; very slight, with a skin of extreme fineness. She had heavy-lidded eyes, that looked to have seen much weeping, and a smile the more pathetic for its great readiness.
As to Anne, a consistent story would require that she should be as pallid as her mother, that her little hand, intent now on her mother's hat-brim, should be a mere kite's claw; and there should have been delicate dark rings under her eyes. But, far from being a kite's claw, the hand on the hat-brim was as plump as ripe fruit, and her cheeks were like smooth apricots perfect with the sun. But, after all, there is no describing Anne. If you will look at the child held in the arms of the Madonna of the Chair and then at the one in the arms of the Sistine Madonna; then, if you will picture a child not quite a year old, who might worthily be the little sister and companion of these, you will have some idea, even though inadequate still, of what Anne was, as she held tight to Mamie's rakish hat-brim and gave me the solemn attention of her eyes.
I went over the requirements. I spoke of the loneliness. Not a town within miles.
"Well, what do you think of that!" Mamie replied. But she was unfeignedly eager to come.
"When could you be ready?"
"Oh, right away," she said. "I've got Anne's clothes here." She glanced at a small paper bundle under one arm.
My good fairy, who pays me occasional visits, prevented my asking her where her own clothes were.
The matron interposed. Mamie could stay right there until I was ready to take her, late that afternoon. Then, when Mamie had gone into the outer room, the matron explained.
"She hasn't any home to go to. He left her and raised money on her furniture. They came and took it. She hasn't even a stick of it."