Puppet sat down on the grass, leaned against the tree, and felt very hungry.
A lady was sitting by an open window, sewing. She was sitting so that Puppet could see only a bit of her left cheek, and her dark hair, just beginning to turn gray, and her right hand as she brought the needle up from her work. From what she did see, Puppet thought that she would give her something to eat, if she could but get her attention. Surely, she must be often hungry herself, or why should she have so many gray hairs?
Puppet, leaning against the tree, ran her fingers over the guitar frets in light harmonies; but the lady did not look.
Her thoughts must be far away, in a quiet and happy place, that Puppet’s harmonies should seem a part of that place.
The guitar broke into a low, mournful minor. Still the lady gave no heed to Puppet.
Puppet was feeling very hungry. She would play the Fandango. That must rouse any one. She began at the most rattling part.
The gray-haired lady looked round quickly. “Bless me, bless me! what’s this?” Seeing a little girl out by the tree, she put her sewing on the table, and came to the door and into the yard.
“Dear me! a little girl with yellow hair, and I just to have been dreaming of a little girl with yellow hair!”
“Is anything the matter with my hair, mum?” Puppet stopped playing, and ran her hands through the yellow mass of uncombed locks.
“Ah, no, little girl! there is nothing the matter with your hair. Only—” The lady was thinking how soft, and fine, and curly was the yellow hair of which she had been dreaming.