“Please—I’m going—but tell me—that I may come back again.”
There was something so sincere and wistful in Zelda’s tone as she spoke, standing between the firelight and the lamplight; something, too, in the glance of appeal she gave the little room, that broke down the antagonism in Mrs. Merriam’s eyes. She put out her hand again.
“Yes; I hope you will come. We shall be glad to see you.”
“Et vous?” Zelda turned to Olive with a quick gesture. “You must say it, too!”
“Certainly—Cousin Zelda! Saturday or Sunday, always—in the afternoons.”
“Saturday—that’s three days to wait—please don’t forget! Good night!”
Olive followed Zelda to the steps, and saw the runabout turn in the narrow street and whirl away. She watched it until Zelda’s erect figure passed like a flash under the electric light at the corner and disappeared into the dark beyond.
“What miracle is this?” asked Mrs. Merriam of Olive. “Nothing short of a miracle would account for it.”
“I met her down at the school-house. She had lost her way and asked me how to find Jefferson Street. I called her by name,—she seemed to remember me, and then she insisted on bringing me home. She seemed rather pitiful; she said she was lonesome and wanted a friend.”
Olive sat down on a stool at her mother’s feet. She was afraid to show too much interest in this new-found cousin. Her mother was clearly puzzled and troubled; the moment was difficult; but she felt that it was important to determine their future relations with Zelda Dameron now.