Joey laughed, and held out his arms for the shirt.
A few minutes later I was arranging the gaily striped Windsor tie beneath the turn down collar of the worn shirt, when the familiar sound of creaking harness and whirring wheels reached my ear. Wanza had not paid Cedar Dale a visit since the day she went away in tearful silence bearing the waxwing with her.
When I opened the door and saw her radiant face my spirits lightened suddenly, and a spray of sunshine seemed to sweeten the dingy kitchen as she stepped over the threshold.
“Am I in time?” she breathed.
“In time? In time for what, Wanza?” I asked.
She dropped a bundle on to the table.
“In time for Joey to wear one of these to Sunday school?” she said, portentously.
Joey crept closer. Her eyes as they turned to him were blue as summer skies and as shining. She snapped the string that held the bundle intact. Joey and I saw an amazing array of small shirts—checked shirts, striped shirts, white shirts.
“Where—where did they come from, Wanza?” stammered Joey.
But I had guessed.