But fear was no part of Connie’s nature. She rather liked the idea of going alone; it made her feel more womanly. She did not, however, decline Kenneth’s escort up the stairs and through the hall, but insisted upon carrying the candle he lighted, and held it at such an angle that several drops of tallow fell on her dress and on the floor before she reached the door of her room.
“Good-night, Connie. I suppose there is nothing I can do for you?” Kenneth said.
“No, thanks,” Connie replied; then, still holding her dripping candle nearly upside down, she added: “Or, yes, if you will hear me say my prayers and keep me going.”
Kenneth drew a long breath and stopped short, while she continued: “And if you will just unbutton me. I can’t reach ’em very well and hold the candle, too, and the kitten. I’ve got it, see?”
She was squeezing it under her arm, while she put her hand to the back of her dress, trying to loosen the refractory buttons.
Kenneth’s face was scarlet, but the one turned to him was innocent as a baby’s, and he began his task. He did not know anything about a child’s buttons, and his fingers felt like thumbs as he managed to undo them, while Connie hunched her shoulders and squeezed the cat, which she said she should keep all night if her aunt would let her.
“I always have a doll at home,” she said, “and I wanted to bring one with me, but auntie would not let me. I wonder why?”
Kenneth was not especially interested in dolls, and, having discharged his duty as maid, turned to go. But Connie was not through with him.
“Ar’n’t you going to hear me say my prayers and keep me going? Jean always does,—that’s my maid.”
Kenneth drew a longer breath than at first. But Connie was persistent, and made him sit down in a chair while she put the sputtering candle on the floor, and, still holding the cat, knelt beside him with her head in his lap.