On flagging feet, the child came out. She was small--not over nine at the most--with thin little legs, and a figure too slender for her years. Her dress was a gingham, very much faded. One untied lace of her patched shoes whipped from side to side as she walked. But it was not the poorness of her dress that made her a pathetic picture as she halted, looking at Mrs. Colter. It was her face--a grave, little face, thin, and lacking childish color. Upon it were a few stray, pale freckles. Yet it was not a plain face, and about it fell her hair, brown and abundant, in gleaming curls and waves. Her eyes were lovely--large, and a dark, almost a purplish, blue. They were wise beyond the age of their owner, and sad. They told of tears shed, of wordless appeal, but also of patient endurance of little troubles. Her brows had an upward turn at the center which gave her a quaint, questioning look. Her mouth was tucked in at either corner, lending a wistful expression that was habitual. "Barbara, come, hurry," urged Mrs. Colter, holding out the child's hat. But Barbara hung back. "Where's Aunt Clare?" she asked. "I tell you, Aunt Clare ain't home yet." Now, Barbara retreated. "Oh, I want to stay here, to see her. Please, please." "Look how you act!" complained Mrs. Colter, helplessly. Tottie came to the rescue. "Say, I'll keep a' eye on the kid." "Oh, will you?" cried Mrs. Colter, gratefully. "Sure. Leave her." "That's mighty nice of you.--And you be a good girl, Barbara." "I will," promised the child, settling herself upon the settee with a happy smile. A bell rang. "Ah, there she is now!" exclaimed Mrs. Colter, and as Barbara sprang up, she ran to her and hastily tidied the gingham dress. But Tottie was giving a touch to her appearance at the hall mirror. "Nope," she declared over a shoulder. "She's got a key." Though she heard the bell again, and it was now ringing impatiently, Mrs. Colter was not convinced. She knelt before Barbara, straightening a washed-out ribbon that stood up limply above the brown curls. "Now, come! Quiet!" she admonished. Out of the pocket of the gingham, Barbara had brought a small and withered nosegay. There were asters in it, and a torn and woeful carnation. "See!" she cried. "I'm going to give Aunt Clare all these." Tottie was gone to admit the visitor. Mrs. Colter lowered her voice. "Yes, honey," she agreed. "And you're goin' to tell your Aunt Clare what a nice place we've got in Poughkeepsie, and how much you like it, and----" The outer door had opened. She whispered an added suggestion. There was a young man at the front door--a man with a quick, nervous manner. He wore clothes that were unmistakably English, and _pince-nez_ from which hung a narrow black ribbon. And he carried a cane. As he took off his derby to greet the landlady with studied courtesy, his hair showed sparse across the top of his head. His mustache worn short, was touched with gray.