Vesta agreed solemnly, but her childish mind hardly grasped the full significance of the warning.
Lester came at seven.
Jennie, who had taken great pains to array Vesta as attractively as possible, had gone into her bedroom to give her own toilet a last touch.
Vesta was supposedly in the kitchen.
As a matter of fact, she had followed her mother to the door of the sitting-room, where now she could be plainly seen. Lester hung up his hat and coat, then, turning, he caught his first glimpse.
The child looked very sweet—he admitted that at a glance.
She was arrayed in a blue-dotted, white flannel dress, with a soft roll collar and cuffs, and the costume was completed by white stockings and shoes.
Her corn-colored ringlets hung gaily about her face. Blue eyes, rosy lips, rosy cheeks completed the picture.
Lester stared, almost inclined to say something, but restrained himself.
Vesta shyly retreated.
When Jennie came out he commented on the fact that Vesta had arrived. "Rather sweet-looking child," he said.
"Do you have much trouble in making her mind?"
"Not much," she returned.
Jennie went on to the dining-room, and Lester overheard a scrap of their conversation.
"Who are he?" asked Vesta.
"Sh!
That's your Uncle Lester.
Didn't I tell you you mustn't talk?"
"Are he your uncle?"
"No, dear.
Don't talk now.
Run into the kitchen."
"Are he only my uncle?"
"Yes.
Now run along."
"All right."
In spite of himself Lester had to smile.
What might have followed if the child had been homely, misshapen, peevish, or all three, can scarcely be conjectured. Had Jennie been less tactful, even in the beginning, he might have obtained a disagreeable impression.
As it was, the natural beauty of the child, combined with the mother's gentle diplomacy in keeping her in the background, served to give him that fleeting glimpse of innocence and youth which is always pleasant.
The thought struck him that Jennie had been the mother of a child all these years; she had been separated from it for months at a time; she had never even hinted at its existence, and yet her affection for Vesta was obviously great.
"It's queer," he said.
"She's a peculiar woman."
One morning Lester was sitting in the parlor reading his paper when he thought he heard something stir.
He turned, and was surprised to see a large blue eye fixed upon him through the crack of a neighboring door—the effect was most disconcerting.
It was not like the ordinary eye, which, under such embarrassing circumstances, would have been immediately withdrawn; it kept its position with deliberate boldness.
He turned his paper solemnly and looked again.
There was the eye.
He turned it again.
Still was the eye present.
He crossed his legs and looked again.
Now the eye was gone.
This little episode, unimportant in itself, was yet informed with the saving grace of comedy, a thing to which Lester was especially responsive.
Although not in the least inclined to relax his attitude of aloofness, he found his mind, in the minutest degree, tickled by the mysterious appearance; the corners of his mouth were animated by a desire to turn up.
He did not give way to the feeling, and stuck by his paper, but the incident remained very clearly in his mind.
The young wayfarer had made her first really important impression upon him.
Not long after this Lester was sitting one morning at breakfast, calmly eating his chop and conning his newspaper, when he was aroused by another visitation—this time not quite so simple.
Jennie had given Vesta her breakfast, and set her to amuse herself alone until Lester should leave the house. Jennie was seated at the table, pouring out the coffee, when Vesta suddenly appeared, very business-like in manner, and marched through the room.
Lester looked up, and Jennie colored and arose.
"What is it, Vesta?" she inquired, following her.
By this time, however, Vesta had reached the kitchen, secured a little broom, and returned, a droll determination lighting her face.