Kate was not slow to perceive it, with that feminine instinct which somehow scents out and delights in the honest admiration of high or low, rich or poor. She grew very kind to little Sally. Many a book and magazine she lent the child; and now and then she gave her a flower, a bit of bright ribbon, or some little picture. To poor Sally Green these trifles were as the gifts of a goddess, and no devotee ever treasured relics from the shrine of his patron saint more tenderly than she cherished any, even the slightest, token which was associated with the beautiful young lady whom she adored with all her faithful, reverent, imaginative heart.
One June evening Sally had been working hard all day. She had washed dishes, run her mother’s errands, got supper, and now her reward was to come.
“You may make yourself tidy,” her mother said, “and carry home that basket of Miss Kate’s things to Squire Oswald’s.”
Sally flew upstairs, and brushed back her black locks, and tied them with a red ribbon Miss Kate had given her. She put on a clean dress, and a little straw hat that last year had been Miss Kate’s own; and really for such a stubbed, dark little thing, she looked very nicely. She was thirteen—two years younger than her idol—and while Miss Kate was tall, and looked older than her years, Sally looked even younger than she was. Her heart beat as she hurried up the hill. She thought of the fable of the mouse and the lion, which she had read in one of the books Miss Kate had lent her. It made her think of herself and her idol. Not that Miss Kate was like a lion at all,—no, she was like a beautiful princess,—but she herself was such a poor, humble, helpless little mouse; and yet there might be a time, if she only watched and waited, when she, even she, could do pretty Miss Kate some good. And if the time ever came, wouldn’t she do it, just, at no matter what cost to herself? Poor little Sally! The time was on its way, and nearer than she thought.
She found Miss Kate in her own pretty room,—a room all blue and white and silver, as befitted such a fair-haired beauty. The bedstead and wardrobe were of polished chestnut, lightly and gracefully carved. The carpet was pale gray, with impossible blue roses. The blue chintz curtains were looped back with silver cords; there were silver frames, with narrow blue edges, to the few graceful pictures; and on the mantel were a clock and vases with silver ornaments.
Pretty Miss Kate looked as if she had been dressed on purpose to stay in that room. She wore a blue dress, and round her neck was a silver necklace which her father had brought her last year from far-off Genoa. Silver ornaments were in her little ears, and a silver clasp fastened the belt at her waist. She welcomed Sally with a sweet graciousness, a little conscious, perhaps, of the fact that she was Miss Oswald, and Sally was Sally Green; but to the child her manner, like every thing else about her, seemed perfection.
“Sit down and stay a little, Sally,” she said, “I have something to tell you. Do you remember what you heard me read that first time, when your eyes got so big with listening, and I made you stay and hear it all?”
“Yes, indeed,” Sally cried eagerly. “I never forgot any thing I ever heard you read. That first time it was ‘The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.’”
“Yes, you are right, and I know I was surprised to find how much you cared about it. I began to be interested in you then, for you know I am interested in you, don’t you, Sally?”
Sally blushed with pleasure till her face glowed like the June roses in Miss Kate’s silver vases, but she did not know what to say, and so, very wisely, she did not say any thing. Miss Kate went on,—