Elizabeth

The someone was sitting upon the battered footstool and was dressed in her nightgown and wrapped up in a red shawl.

It was Ermengarde.

Ermengarde!

cried Sarah.

She was so startled that she was almost frightened.

Ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool.

She shuffled across the attic in her bedroom slippers, which were too large for her.

Her eyes and nose were pink with crying.

Something in her voice made the familiar lump rise in Sarah's throat.

It was so affectionate and simple, so like the old ermengarde who had asked her to be best friends.

It sounded as if she had not meant what she had seemed to mean during these past weeks.

I do like you, Sarah answered.

Ermengarde opened her wet eyes wide.

Sarah thought a moment.

She saw she had made a mistake.

Ermengarde almost wailed in her reproachful dismay, and then, after one more look, they rushed into each other's arms.

It must be confessed that Sarah's small, black head lay for some minutes on the shoulder covered by the red shawl.

When Ermengarde had seemed to desert her, she had felt horribly lonely.

Afterward, they sat down upon the floor together, Sarah clasping her knees with her arms, and Ermengarde rolled up in her shawl.

Ermengarde looked at the odd, big-eyed little face adoringly.