When she woke up, the mirror was before her again, and she looked at herself in it. She was a grown woman. Her hair was coiled at the back of her head. She was tall and slender, and her head nearly touched the roof of the coach. She looked as if she might have been about thirty-five years old. Myrma looked very tiny beside her. The coach was badly broken, in many places.
“Now we’re going to get out,” said Myrma, and the coach stopped before a pretty little cottage covered with vines. Over the door was the number, “35.”
“I’ll wait for you here,” said Myrma, and Merrimeg gathered up her skirts and ran to the cottage door.
“Peter!” she cried; and the door opened, and a jolly-looking young man, of about her own age, opened the door and took her into his arms. He had very nice laughing eyes.
“Dearest!” he said.
“Oh, Peter!” she said. “Is he better now?”
“Yes, darling, it’s only measles. Nothing to worry about.”
“Mother! Mother!” came two voices from inside, and a boy of ten and a girl of seven ran out and threw their arms about her. She kissed them both, and they all went in together.
A little boy of three or four was lying in his crib, in a darkened room, and she leaned over him and squeezed his hot little hand.
“Mother,” he said, “I want a drink of water.”