Leaning on the fence, Jane spoke to the scarecrow. “I ought to be glad but I am not.”
The scarecrow bowed and danced in the breeze. He had no heart, of course. He was made of two crossed sticks....
Jane found Mrs. Follette on the wide porch. She was snowy and crisp in white linen. She wore a black enamel brooch, and a flat black hat which was so old-fashioned that it took on a mid-Victorian stateliness.
“My dear child,” she said, “stay and have lunch with me. Mary has baked fresh bread, and we’ll have it with your berries, and some Dutch cheeses and cream.”
“I’d love it,” Jane said; “I hoped you’d ask me. We are going at four to Delafield Simms for the week-end. I shall have to be fashionable for forty-eight hours, and I hate it.”
Mrs. Follette smiled indulgently. “Of course, you don’t mean it. And don’t try to be fashionable. Just be yourself. It is only people who have never been anybody who try to make themselves like others.”
“Well,” said Jane, “I’m afraid I’ve never been anybody, Mrs. Follette. I’m just little Jane Barnes.”
Her air was dejected.
“What’s the matter with you, Jane?” Mrs. Follette demanded.
Jane clasped her hands together. “Oh, I want my mother. I want my mother.” Her voice was low, but there was a poignant note in it.