Babiche begged gracefully for her part of the buns. They had a delightful time together.
"But I do wish," she murmured, after they'd settled themselves on the narrow bed for the night, "I could remember whether Mademoiselle ever let the Wheezy have such a dreadful luncheon—I shall ask her tomorrow—"
She did ask her, for she did find the Wheezy, just as she found anything she set out to find, by sheer dint of persistence.
It was late afternoon when she found her. The visiting hours were almost over. The Wheezy never had visitors, she was sitting listlessly looking at nothing at all when the attendant ushered Felicia through the corridor. She was just the same old Wheezy, but more crotchety, smaller and thinner, wheezing still and she turned her dim eyes toward the doorway and called,
"If you want to speak to Mrs. Sperry why under the shining canopy don't you come in? She'll be back in a second."
For several minutes she stubbornly would not recognize Felicia. She grudgingly admitted that she did remember Mademoiselle D'Ormy and that she did recall there had been a little girl, but she was as incredulous as the Disagreeable Walnut had been that this frumpy, drab looking person was that sprightly child. Felicia strove mightily to reassure her.
"Can't you remember when you used to sew for us at Montrose Place, how
I called you the Wheezy and it made you cross?"
Miss Pease admitted that the child had called her that.
"And can't you remember anything else I did? I mean that the little girl did? For if you could I would do it and then you'd know—"
"She used to whistle—" the admission came slowly after deep thought,
"She used to whistle real good, when the old man wasn't about."