For once Ethel had utterly forgotten her quest, and did not look into a single one of the hundreds of faces she passed. But a bright little girl, standing at the foot of those same marble steps, and holding fast to the hand of a young man, was more observant.
“What a pretty lady, Ellis!” she said, gazing after Ethel’s lithe, graceful figure as it flitted by. “And she looks like Dora. I thought it was at first, but she has another sort of dress on.”
“Yes, Nan, it was a pretty face, and something like Dora’s, I thought too,” returned the lad. “You are tired, little sister, and yonder is an empty seat. Shall we go to it?”
“Yes—no; see, they’re coming now.”
Then letting go his hand, and running to meet a lady and gentleman who were sauntering toward them from the direction of the Main Building, “Papa and mamma,” she cried, “Ellis and I have been waiting a long time. Shall we go in now to see the pictures?”
“It is growing late, Nan, and tea will be ready by the time we can get home if we start at once,” said the father. “Your mother is much fatigued, too—very tired indeed; so we will leave the pictures for another time.”
“Well, I don’t care, if mamma’s tired,” said the child, putting her hand into his.
Both parents smiled approval, and the little party walked away together toward the place of exit from the grounds.
In the mean time Espy was making way for himself and Ethel through the crowds that filled the corridors of Memorial Hall.
Reaching that portion of the building appropriated to the works of American artists, he paused for a moment or two before several paintings in succession, calling her attention to the good points of each, and giving the artist’s name; but when they came to his own he waited silently for her to speak.