“Then she knows good material.  Was her gown tailor-made?”

“Might have been.  Why?”

“Because if her white linen gowns are tailored she has money and is used to spending it for clothes.  I’m sure she meant the price was too low.  Did she say when she was coming?”

“Next week.  She didn’t say what day.”

[Sidenote:  Waiting]

“Then,” sighed Barbara, “all we can do is to wait.”

“We’ll wait until she comes, or has had time to.  In the meantime, I’m going to show my quilts to those old ladies and take down a jar or two of preserves.  I wish you’d write to the people who left orders last year, and ask if they want preserves or jam or jelly, or pickles, or quilts, or anything.  It would be nice to get some orders in before we buy the fruit.”

Barbara put down her book, asked for the pen and ink, and went cheerfully to work, with the aid of Aunt Miriam’s small memorandum book which contained a list of addresses.

“What colour is her hair, Aunty?” she asked, as she blotted and turned her first neat page.

“A good deal the colour of that old copper tea-kettle that a woman paid six dollars for once, do you remember?  I’ve always thought she was crazy, for she wouldn’t even let me clean it.”

“And her eyes?”

“Brown and big, with long lashes.  She looks well enough, and her voice is pleasant, and I must say she has nice ways.  She didn’t make me feel like a peddler, as so many of them do.  P’raps she’ll come,” admitted Miriam, grudgingly.

“Oh, I hope so.  I’d love to see her and her pretty clothes, even if she didn’t buy anything.”  Barbara threw back a golden braid impatiently, wishing it were copper-coloured and had smooth, shiny waves in it, instead of fluffing out like an undeserved halo.

While Barbara was writing, her father came in and sat down near her.  “More sewing, dear?” he asked, wistfully.

[Sidenote:  Writing Letters]

“No, Daddy, not this time.  I’m just writing letters.”

“I didn’t know you ever got any letters—­do you?”

“Oh, yes—­sometimes.  The people at the hotel come up to call once in a while, you know, and after they go away, Aunt Miriam and I occasionally exchange letters with them.  It’s nice to get letters.”

The old man’s face changed.  “Are you lonely, dear?”

“Lonely?” repeated Barbara, laughing; “why I don’t even know what the word means.  I have you and my books and my sewing and these letters to write, and I can sit in the window and nod to people who go by—­how could I be lonely, Daddy?”

“I want you to be happy, dear.”

“So I am,” returned the girl, trying hard to make her voice even.  “With you, and everything a girl could want, why shouldn’t I be happy?”

Miriam went out, closing the door quietly, and the blind man drew his chair very near to Barbara.

[Sidenote:  Dreaming]