“You must forgive her, Mrs. Foley,” Jessie said, coming down to meet the woman and taking the baby from her. “Go and see and speak to the child,” she whispered. “She is so delighted that she has not been able to talk for ten minutes.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Foley solemnly, “the wor-r-rld has come to an end. When Hen Haney can’t talk——”
But she mounted heavily to the platform. Little Henrietta stood there like a wax figure. She dared not move for fear something would happen to her finery.
Every individual freckle on her thin, sharp face seemed to shine as though there was some radiance behind it. Absurd as that taffeta dress was for a child of her age, it seemed to her an armor against all disaster. Nothing bad (she had already acclaimed it to Amy and Jessie) could happen to her with that frock on. And those silk stockings! And the patent-toed shoes! And a hat that almost hid the child’s features from view!
“Well, well, well!” muttered the amazed Mrs. Foley. “If anybody had ever told me that you’d have been dressed up like—like a millionaire’s kid! When I took you away from your poor dead mother and brought you out here, Hen Haney, to be a playfellow of me little Charlie, and Billy, and—and—Well, anyway, to be a playmate to them. Ha! You never cleaned out the stove-grate, did you?”
She had looked into the kitchen and saw the dishes in the sink and the gaping stove hearth, and shook her head. Jessie thought it time to intercede for the little girl.
“You must forgive her, Mrs. Foley, and blame me. I made her dress up in the things we brought. I was sure you would want to see her in her Sunday clothes.”
A deep sigh welled up from Henrietta’s chest. “Am I going to sure enough keep ’em to wear Sundays?” she asked.
“If Mrs. Foley will let you,” said the politic Jessie. “You can keep them very carefully. It is really wonderful how well they fit.”
“Sure,” sighed Mrs. Foley, “she’s better dressed than me own children.”