The graceful little gray dove was floating through the air, without a flutter of wing—just sailing on the breeze. Following Cleo's lead the girls made their way through the thicket, and presently were in the low, soft, velvety patch, the sort of maiden-hair grass that grows under the trees.
"Here we are," almost whispered Isabel, for the bird was about settled on a tuft of meadow grass.
"Oh, here's Kitty!" exclaimed Grace. "Kitty girl, what are you hiding from?"
And there, crouched at the foot of a tree was Kitty. She looked like nothing so much as a toad-stool, a bit of human fungus growth, at the foot of that gentle birch tree. Her knees drawn up, and bare feet hiding in her bedraggled gingham skirt, Kitty was truly a sorry looking figure.
"What is it?" asked Isabel. The girls had grouped themselves around in semi-circle, and even Lovey, the waiting messenger, was for the moment forgotten.
Kitty raised her head and confessed to a pair of very red eyes. Her lips were trembling and the little cords of her face twitching.
"I heard a racket, and thought she had sent them after me," stammered Kitty. "But it was only you," and just the glint of a smile played through her grief.
"Who was coming after you? Whom did you fear, Kitty? Tell us!" asked Louise, slipping down on the green, beside the crouching figure.
"Aunt Hannah. She came back from New York, and we didn't expect her. Somehow she found out about—about the accident, and she was furious."
"Your Aunt Hannah?" pressed Grace. The girls sensed tragedy now.