"They had one, a girl, but she died. I almost wish we had not brought Emmie; I think Alice was just twelve when she caught the fever. It is eight or nine years ago, but they have never got over it. Ah, there comes the Captain with his 'little woman.'"
Queenie stifled an exclamation as she rose from her seat. Mrs. Fawcett was as tall as her husband,—a thin, long-necked woman, fully six feet high, and gaunt almost to scragginess.
She had a worn, anxious-looking face; it was difficult to imagine it had ever been young or good-looking. The prominent teeth, high cheekbones, and scanty grey hair, told no tale of past beauty. It was a plain face, grown plainer with age. She looked like a caricature of her husband's taste beside his handsome old face and grand figure.
Her hand-shake was almost masculine in its grasp, and her voice was harsh, but not ungentle; but both face and voice softened strangely at the first sight of Emmie. The husband and wife exchanged looks.
"Do you see, Captain?"
"Aye, aye, missus, I see."
"Is this your little sister, Miss Marriott? Come to me, darling; how old are you?"
"Twelve," repeated Emmie, looking up in her face with solemn blue eyes. Emmie rarely smiled with strangers.
"Twelve; do you hear that, Joshua?"
"Aye, aye, I hear it, little woman."