“I came to take you for a walk,” began Dorothy pleasantly. “This is too lovely an afternoon to remain in doors.”
“You are very kind,” answered Miette with unmistakable gratitude in her voice, “but I am afraid I cannot go out. I must do my mending.”
“But it will likely rain to-morrow, and then you will be glad to have mending to do. Besides, we have a little club we call the Wag-Tale Club, and we meet once a month. When we do meet we all bring our mending and allow our tongues to ‘wag,’ to our hearts’ content. It’s quite jolly, and we often have races in mending articles when some one else can match the holes. I would advise you to save up your mending and come in with the Wags,” ventured Dorothy.
“I am afraid of clubs,” said Miette with a faint smile, “and besides, I am sure my clothes are different now. I had pretty things when—mother was—with me.”
“But now do come for a walk,” insisted Dorothy, anxious to change the train of Miette’s thoughts. “We will go all alone, and the woods are perfectly delightful in autumn. I can show you something you never see in France, for I believe, the European countries have no such brilliant autumn as we have here in America.”
“No, that is true,” assented Miette. “I have already noticed how beautiful it is. Our leaves just seem to get tired and drop down helpless and discouraged, but yours—yours put all their glory in their last days, like some of our wonderful kings and queens of history.”
“Then do let me show you how wonderful the woods are just now,” pleaded Dorothy, “for the next rain will bring down showers of our most brilliant colors.”
The temptation was strong—Miette wanted to go out, she needed the fresh fall air, and she needed Dorothy’s companionship. Why should she not go? Surely she could trust Dorothy?
For a moment she hesitated, then rose from the low sewing chair.
“I believe I must go,” she said with a smile. “You tempt me so, and it is so lovely outside. I will leave my work and be—lazy.”