She looked malignantly at little Anne.
“What do they put on pincushions for innocents yet-to-be, or rather used to do it in the good old days? ‛Bless the Babe?’ David Copperfield had that on his prenatal pincushion. I shall work one for Anne Berkley, but there will be the difference of a word in the sentiment,” Helen said.
“Oh, thank you, Miss Abercrombie, but Kitca is enough and too much for you to do for me!” cried little Anne, fervently. “May I put in one of your hairpins? It is rather out.”
“Miss Abercrombie would rather put it in herself, Anne,” said Kit, hastily. He took the child on his back. “Let me ride you home, or part of the way.”
“And avoid contamination,” smiled Helen, interpreting Kit’s unconsidered impulse.
At Miss Carrington’s, Helen went into the house, but Kit went all the way to the Berkley house, seeing little Anne home.
Helen turned back from the foot of Miss Carrington’s steps.
“Kit,” she called after the pair of friends, “I’ve had a lovely time; I’m fond of the drama. And I think you are right, and I was wrong. I wouldn’t change it; I wanted to see, and I saw! Good-bye. Little Anne likes a snowy-white kit, but not I! You’re a nice boy, Kit, but you’re not much of a man.”
She ran laughing up the rest of the way and rushed into the house.
“She seems mad,” observed sharp little Anne.