Weezy’s hand stole quietly into that of her new friend.
“That’s dreadful—not to have any papa and mamma! Don’t you want to see my mamma? Please come over to the other side of the boat, and I’ll induce you to her.”
“Thank you, darling; but I’d rather not go.”
“My mamma’s very nice,” pleaded Weezy. “Her name is Mrs. Rowe. My name is Louise Rowe, only ’most all the time it’s Weezy.”
“I’m sure your mother must be very nice, Miss Louise. She has a lovely expression; yet, all the same, I can’t intrude upon her.”
“I wish you could,” said Weezy, wondering what was meant by “intrude.” “If you could, you wouldn’t be lonesome, ’cause we have ten peoples—only Donald is abed.”
“With ten in your party, Miss Louise, I’m sure you have enough peoples without me,” responded the young lady in crape, unconsciously cheered by the child’s artless sympathy. “Look, your mamma is beckoning you.”
Mrs. Rowe had feared lest her sociable little daughter might annoy the stranger; but after hearing Weezy’s story about her, changed her mind.
“The poor girl looks very sad and lonely,” she said, watching the sweet, sensitive face, which she had observed at dinner. “I’ll go back with you, Weezy, and speak to her.”
And having crossed the deck, she gracefully introduced herself to the desolate young lady in mourning, who in return gave her own name as Miss Evans.