"How old would she be?"
"About as old as you, I think."
"Did she have light hair, or dark?"
"Dark."
"Curly?"
"No, straight. Oh, how we did try to make it curl," laughed Mrs. Morrison.
"But I guess she didn't have freckles," said Laurel.
"Not then. But I think she would have had, when she grew up. She liked the sun, and out-of-doors. I'd have loved to have had her have ever so freckly a nose!"
"Do you like freckles?" Laurel exclaimed, wide-eyed, and amazed.
As easily as that, they wandered into the holy of holies of Helen Morrison's heart, and wandered out again.
4
When Mrs. Morrison had helped Laurel unpack her trunk on the first afternoon, she had been doubtful as to how her athletic young sons would get along with the little spic-and-span, bandbox girl she rather guessed Laurel to be. There were no stout boots, nor rough clothes of any sort among Laurel's things. There was a bathing-suit, but it was an elaborate fragile affair made of black satin, trimmed with orange. Excellent for exhibition on the beach, but it didn't look very appropriate for use in a certain deep black swimming-hole which the boys had discovered between two barnacled rocks. However, she needn't have worried.
