It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched
them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal
kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards
and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were
"making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and
circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she
helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of
her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of
puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin.
Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to
them as if they liked her and had time!
The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they
followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing
vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she
would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was
of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming
temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out
why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was
an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps
of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever
kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the
Lady Downstairs?
A victoria was driving past the Gardens.
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