Alanna leaned back in her chair, sick with disappointment.
One afternoon, about a week after the fair, she was brooding over the fire. The other children were at the matinée, Mrs. Costello was out, and a violent storm was whirling about the nursery windows.
Presently, Annie, the laundress, put her frowsy head in at the door. She was a queer, warm-hearted Irish girl; her big arms were still steaming from the tub, and her apron was wet.
'Ahl alone?' said Annie with a broad smile.
'Yes; come in, won’t you, Annie?' said little Alanna.
'I cahn’t. I’m at the toobs,' said Annie, coming in nevertheless. 'I was doin' all the tableclot’s and napkins, an’ out drops your little buke!'
'My—what did you say?' said Alanna, very white.
'Your little buke,' said Annie.
She laid the chance-book on the table, and proceeded to mend the fire.
Alanna sank back in her chair. She twisted her fingers together, and tried to think of an appropriate prayer.