His fingers shook. He stared at her through the twilight. She saw his lips move as if for utterance, but no sound came forth. It was an awkward moment for them both.
"Oh, so she came!" John finally got out. "I thought she was too backward to—to go anywhere."
"She was timid at first," Tilly said, choking down the despair that seemed to rise in her throat like a fluid; "but I gave her some cake and made her feel at home the best I could."
There was another turgid pause. John managed to break it, inexpert though he was in the verbal finesse he was evidently trying to use.
"She is a queer little imp," he said. "Don't you think so?"
"Yes, very, very strange, for a child of her age. I think she liked me pretty well, and—and I did her. She ought to be taught. Can she read or write? I didn't think to ask her."
"She doesn't know B from a bull's track." John tried to smile, as he forced a laugh. "Yes, she ought to be taught, I guess." He was silent for a moment, and then he resumed: "What did she have to say? She can talk a regular blue streak at times, and I am wondering—wondering—"
"She told me all about the doll and doll-things you sent her," Tilly answered, resorting to subterfuge with no little skill. "Let a child like that start to talk about her playthings and she will run on all day. She didn't stay very long. She said she had work to do at home."
From the sudden change of his face, Tilly comprehended the relief that must have swept through him at that moment. He glanced toward the center of the town where a cluster of lights threw a glow on the sky. "There is a show under a tent on Main Street to-night," he said. "It may not be much good, but it is something to go to. Suppose we walk over? It isn't very far. When it is out we can stop at Tilman's ice-cream and soda-water parlor and take something cool."
"No"—Tilly shook her head—"let's stay at home."