There was a rustling in the grass outside, and in a moment a small child stood examining her damp stockings on the threshold.
Bridget raised her head with an impatient jerk, and confronted her visitor with an angry, “Well?”
Heavy masses of curling, copper-colored hair hung round her face to her shoulders. It was a small, delicately tinted face, with a dainty, pointed chin, and a pair of big gray eyes. They were singularly bright and restless eyes, and when she was angry they blazed royally.
She was angry now, and the small child shrank back.
“I—I—Alice sent me. Miss Ruggles wants you,” she stammered.
“Confound!” Bridget exclaimed with frank emphasis, snatching up her papers and bundling them into a book.
She rushed out of the arbor like a whirlwind, and the child cowered against the door as she passed. Half way through the long grass she recalled the frightened action, and turned impetuously back.
“All right, Dulcie! I’m not angry with you,” she said, bending over the little girl.
Dulcie flung her arms round her, and kissed her rapturously, tears of fright still in her eyes.
“You may carry up my books for prep. to-night, and bring me the biscuits at supper,” Bridget whispered consolingly, disengaging herself with a hasty kiss.