She did not move away, however; but stood
eying me irresolutely, with that pathetic mixture of interrogation and
defiance in her face which is so often seen in the prematurely developed
faces of poverty-stricken children.
"Aren't the colors pretty?" I said. She brightened instantly.
"Yes'm. I'd like a goon av thit blue."
"But you will take cold standing in the wet," said I. "Won't you come
under my umbrella?"
She looked down at her wet dress suddenly, as if it had not occurred to
her before that it was raining. Then she drew first one little foot and
then the other out of the muddy puddle in which she had been standing,
and, moving a little closer to the window, said, "I'm not jist goin' home,
mem. I'd like to stop here a bit."
So I left her. But, after I had gone a few blocks, the impulse seized me
to return by a cross street, and see if she were still there. Tears sprang
to my eyes as I first caught sight of the upright little figure, standing
in the same spot, still pointing with the rhythmic finger to the blues and
reds and yellows, and half chanting under her breath, as before, "I choose
_that_ color.
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