As the woman went about her work, she listened, and stopped and went to the door—­for some sound from upstairs.  Presently she went up and opened the door... and looked in.

The child lay with one hand thrown above her head—­a drawn look in the softly arched brow and half-parted lips.  The woman bent over her, listening—­and placed her hand on the small wrist and counted—­waiting.  The eyes flashed open—­and looked at her.  “I thought you were Nono,” said the child.  A wistful look filled her face and her lip quivered a little—­out of it—­and steadied itself.  “You are Mrs. Seabury,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” said the woman cheerfully.  “Time to get up, dearie.”  She turned away and busied herself with the clothes hanging from their hooks.

The child’s eyes followed her—­dully.  “I don’t think I care to get up,” she said at last.

The woman brought the clothes and placed them by the bed, and smiled down at her.  “There’s something nice to-day,” she said casually.  “We’re going outdoors to-day—­”

“Can I?” said the child.  She flashed a smile and sat up.  “Can I go out-of-doors?” It was a little cry of waiting—­and the woman’s hand dashed across her eyes—­at the keenness of it.  Then she smiled—­the round, assuring smile, and held up the clothes.  “You hurry up and dress and eat your breakfast,” she said, “—­a good, big breakfast—­and we are going—­out in the sun—­you and me.”  She nodded cheerfully and went out.

The child put one foot over the edge of the bed and looked down at it—­a little wistfully—­and placed the other beside it.  They were very dark, little feet—­a queer, brown colour—­and the legs above them, were the same curious brown—­and the small straight back—­as she stepped from the bed and slipped off her nightgown and bent above the clothes on the chair.  The colour ran up to her throat—­around it, and over the whole sunny face and hands and arms—­a strange, eclipsing, brown disguise.  There had been a quick, sharp plan to take her abroad and they prepared her hastily against risks on board the steamer.  The plan had been abandoned as too dangerous.  But the colour clung to the soft skin; and the hair, cropped close to the neck, had a stubby, uncouth look.  No one seeking Betty Harris, would have looked twice at the queer, little, brownie-like creature, dressing itself with careful haste.  It lifted a plaid dress from the chair—­large squares of red and green plaid—­and looked at it with raised brows and dropped it over the cropped head.  The skirt came to the top of the rough shoes on the small feet.  Betty Harris looked down at the skirt—­and smoothed it a little... and dropped on her knees beside the bed—­the red and green plaids sweeping around her—­and said the little prayer that Miss Stone had taught her to say at home.

XXXI

A BUTTERFLY FLIGHT

She came down the stairs with slow feet, pausing a little on each stair, as if to taste the pleasure that was coming to her. She was going out-of-doors—­under the sky!