That was another poser, and she made just such a little wry face over it as I had seen Beela make many a time. Her face brightened as she made a dash at a short cut out:
“Do you like me because I’m brown?”
“That is a question! It isn’t because you aren’t white that I like you.”
“Could you like me if I were white?” She stamped impatiently.
“I’d try to,” I sighed.
She made a little pout, stuck up her chin, turned stiffly, and went out with great dignity. It was the Lentala of the feast!
Beela entered when we had finished breakfast. In her rough clothes and tightly bound hair, she made so sharp a contrast to Lentala that, for a moment, I could not think of her as a girl, but as the dear lad whom I had lost. She had none of her brilliant sparkle now, and my heart ached to see the weariness and anxiety that she tried so bravely to conceal.
“What’s afoot for today, dear little brother?” I cheerily inquired.
She was regarding me solemnly. “You’ve had your wish, I suppose. You’ve seen Lentala this morning.”
“Yes. She brought our breakfast. She’s an angel.”