"And been a great sight better off," interpolated Miss Vilda.

"Now don't talk that way, Vildy. Who knows what lays ahead o' that
child? The Lord may be savin' her up to do some great work for Him," she
added, with a wild flight of the imagination.

"She looks like it, don't she?" asked Vilda with a grim intonation; but
her face softened a little as she glanced at Gay asleep on the rustic
bench under the window.

The picture would have struck terror to the sad-eyed æsthete, but an
artist who liked to see colors burn and glow on the canvas would have
been glad to paint her: a little frock of buttercup yellow calico, bare
neck and arms, full of dimples, hair that put the yellow calico to shame
by reason of its tinge of copper, skin of roses and milk that dared the
microscope, red smiling lips, one stocking and ankle-tie kicked off and
five pink toes calling for some silly woman to say "This little pig went
to market" on them, a great bunch of nasturtiums in one warm hand and
the other buried in Rags, who was bursting with the white cat's dinner,
and in such a state of snoring bliss that his tail wagged occasionally,
even in his dreams.

"She don't look like a missionary, if that's what you mean," said
Samantha hotly. "She may not be called 'n' elected to traipse over to
Africy with a Test'ment in one hand 'n' a sun umbreller in the other,
savin' souls by the wholesale; but 't ain't no mean service to go
through the world stealin' into folks' hearts like a ray o' sunshine,
'n' lightin' up every place you step foot in!"