“You will catch cold,” said the boy thoughtfully. “Stop, Cora; you must let me tie the ends of your shawl.”
“It is cold,” agreed the girl: “but I have on Mother’s sontag under the shawl.” She glanced down admiringly and guiltily at the brilliant circle of her royal Stuart skirt. “Mother didn’t know I was going to wear this dress,” said she.
“What made you?” asked the boy soberly. He was smaller than the girl, although of the same age. He was also paler. His attire was as absurd: trousers which seemed a queer evolution from skirts, an uncouth jacket, and wool cap and muffler. His features were good, but their expression of extreme seriousness baffled. His blue eyes under a high forehead were almost aggressively thoughtful for a mere child.
“Will your mother scold you?”
“My mother scold me!” The girl burst into a roulade of laughter. “Mother never scolds me, neither does Father. Everybody loves me, you know,” she said prettily.
Tommy Dunbar gazed reflectively at Cora. He was considering what would have happened to him had he clad himself, without permission from his aunts Nancy and Sarah and his Uncle Reuben, in the bright blue broadcloth suit with a white frill round the neck which he wore Sundays.
Cora looked at him curiously. “Do your folks treat you bad if you do things you want to?” she inquired. Tommy was silent.
“Why don’t you answer?”
“My folks do the way they think is right, I guess,” said Tommy, with a stolid air.
Cora gave her long curls a toss. She dismissed the subject.