“Very bad man. I hate Nick.” This last sentence was so purely American, that even Nora guessed the child had come from mixed surroundings. Holding to her shawl Nora could feel, she imagined, a shudder pass through the slim frame at the very mention of the name Nick.
Lucia dragged her scarf off a bush. “I go now,” she said with just a tinge of politeness. “You bring pie?”
“Yes, a big pie. Don’t forget to come.”
“I come—sure.”
The queer figure stood for a moment out in the clear sunlight, and Nora had a chance to see her features. She was pretty, strikingly so, in spite of her pinched cheeks and her too lustrous eyes.
“Please—you don’t tell anybody?” came the appeal. “I work all day and pull weeds, but like to sleep little bit by the big trees, sometimes.”
Then Nora guessed. “You mean you are sick and come here to rest?”
“Please.”
“Well, you just come here whenever you want to, Lucia,” said Nora with feeling. “The idea of a tiny tot like you working at pulling weeds! And with all those heavy rags on you! It’s a shame!” she declared indignantly.
“You don’t tell?” the child persisted anxiously.