It was one Saturday afternoon, and Sara, consequently, at home by three
o'clock, when she stood, armed with a pattern and some formidable-
looking shears, about to attack a light gray pair of these, when there
came a quick little "rat-tat-tat" at the door.
"Open it, Molly," she said abstractedly, thinking it might be either
Kathie or Grisel; but instead of the round pink and white face and
yellow braids she looked for, there appeared a tall lady, richly
dressed, whose pale, fine countenance was quite unfamiliar.
The lady advanced.
"This is Miss Olmstead, I know; and I am Mrs. Macon. I have often seen
you through the window at home."
Sara greeted her with a blush, and drew forward the best chair, inwardly
experiencing a deep regret that she had not changed the baby's pinafore,
and had kept her cutting operations in the parlor.
Mrs. Macon, however, seemed to notice neither, but praised the baby's
pretty rings of hair, saying he reminded her of one of Raphael's
cherubs, and asked Molly about her school, taking in, with evident
amusement, the child's original answers, and little twists and tosses,
till Sara could recover her equanimity, and be her own quiet self once
more. Then she turned to her with some word of commendation for her
laborious life, and added, with a light laugh,--
"You looked quite fierce with your great scissors as I came in.
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