"Somebody else tumin'," whispered Fan, pulling at her mother's skirts.
Mildred closed again the book she had just resumed, rose and inviting the new comer to enter, handed her a chair.
She was a tall, gaunt, sallow-complexioned woman of uncertain age, with yellow hair, pale watery blue eyes, and a sanctimonious expression of countenance.
Her dress was almost austere in its simplicity; a dove-colored calico, cotton gloves of a little darker shade, a white muslin handkerchief crossed on her bosom, a close straw bonnet with no trimming but a skirt of plain, white ribbon and a piece of the same put straight across the top, brought down over the ears and tied under the chin.
"My name is Drybread," she announced with a slight, stiff courtesy; then seating herself bolt upright on Mildred's offered chair, waited to be addressed.
"Mrs. or Miss?" queried Mrs. Keith pleasantly.
"Miss. And yours?"
"Mrs. Keith. Allow me to introduce my aunt, Miss Stanhope, and my daughter Mildred. These little people too belong to me."
"Gueth we do so?" said Don, showing a double row of pearly teeth, "cauth you're our own mamma. Ain't she, Cyril?"
"Do you go to school, my little man?" asked the visitor, unbending slightly in the stiffness of her manner.