“They isn’t no ’ticular use in bein’ saw,” she observed, “an’ Halverson’s got everything else but just that.”
“But can—can she talk?” Pelleas asked gravely.
“She can, to me,” the child answered readily, “but I do just as well as more would. I can tell what she says. An’ I always understand her. She couldn’t be sure other folks would hear her—right.”
Then the most unfortunate thing that could have happened promptly came about. Humming a little snatch of song and drawing on her gloves Mrs. Trempleau idled down the long piazza. She greeted us, shook out her lace parasol, and saw Margaret.
“My darling!” she cried; “go in at once to your practicing. And don’t come out again please until you’ve found a fresh hair ribbon.”
The child rose without a word. Pelleas and I looked to see her run down the steps, readily forgetful of her pretence about the little sister. Instead, she went down as she had mounted, with an unmistakable tender care of little feet that might stumble.
“Run on, Dearness! Don’t be so stupid!” cried Mrs. Trempleau fretfully; but the child proceeded serenely on her way and disappeared down the aster path, walking as if she led some one whom we did not see.
“She is at that absurd play again,” said the woman impatiently; “really, I didn’t know she ever bored strangers with it.”
“Does she often play so, madame?” Pelleas asked, following her for a few steps on the veranda.
Mrs. Trempleau shrugged.