Most unpromising she was, at the first glance
Betsy pointed to the maid. “She’s got my carpet-bag. Where’d you put it?”
“In your room, Miss Betsy.”
“My room? Have I got a room?”
“Show her, Treesa.”
Treesa led the way, and Betsy was soon back with an egg in each hand.
“They’re all right. I didn’t let no man nor nothin’ touch that bag coming down. Here they are. They aren’t real cold yet, hardly. I shooed Speckly off the nest to get this biggest one just before the stage came for me.”
“Thank you, dear. They’re fine. This weeny one is just like a big pearl. I hope you are going to be happy here with us.”
“I dunno. I never had much time for it.”
The sharp little nine-year-old voice had the edge of forty-five on it; it was the echo of her mother’s fretful plaint which the child had unconsciously picked up.