Then Nannie's little tongue being loosened, she told him all about it—how poor they were that year, and how badly her mother felt; in fact, chattered over all her small history, some parts of which made the stranger's blue eyes misty, while others made him smile, whereat Nannie had always to laugh in return—she very seldom smiled.
"Now," said the stranger, "do you think you could stand still for a short time?"
Nannie at once became motionless, and the stranger began to work away at the big board before him with some very thin sticks. Once in a while he would say, "There, you may move now; sit down on that stone and rest." Then Nannie would sit down until he asked if she felt like standing again, when she would spring to her feet and take her former position. She was beginning to feel very tired—so tired that her little tongue was quiet—when he said, "That will do, little one; come and look at this."
And she came beside him. Why, there she was on the board, scarlet dress and all; her black curls ruffling about her head, her big brown eyes wide open, and her cheeks as pink as king apples.
"Why, that's me!" she cried.
"Of course it is," laughed the stranger.
"Why, ain't I pretty!—only I wish I had my shoes on. I've got a pair in the house, but I only wear 'em in winter."
"It looks prettier in the picture without shoes," said the artist.
Then he told her that she had been a very good little girl; and taking a piece of something like green paper from his pocket, put it in her hand, saying,
"Give this to your mother, and tell her to buy you a nice warm dress with it. I am coming to see you to-morrow; and now good-by, little maid."