But now, what if Heart's Delight could really be theirs!
"Yer goin' ter tell 'em how to paint dem tings yer daub?" broke
in Viny, and snapping off this delightful thought.
"You shouldn't speak so, child," said Caryl with the greatest
dignity; "it's very fine work, and you couldn't possibly
understand it. It's art, Viny."
"Ho, ho!" laughed the small black figure, nowise impressed and
cramming her stumpy fingers up to her mouth to keep the laugh in
as she saw her young mistress' displeasure. "It's an awful old
dirty muss, an' I wish I could do it," she added under her
breath.
"And I shall begin tomorrow," declared Caryl with still greater
dignity, and drawing herself to her full height. "Aunt Sylvia
says she'll try you. Now you'll be good, won't you?" she added
anxiously. "It's only for two hours a day, Viny."
"I'll be good," declared Viny, " 'strue's I live an' breeve."
Meanwhile the darkest of plans ran riot in her little black head.
"Heart's Delight--Heart's Delight!" sang Caryl's happy voice all
that day; and like St. Patrick's poor imprisoned snake, she began
to feel that to-morrow would never come.
But hours come and go, and Caryl awoke the next morning, the
brightest, cheeriest morning that ever called a happy girl out of
bed.
"Aunt Sylvia won't have many more days in that dark little room
of hers," she cried to herself, throwing on her clothes rapidly.
"Oh, dear, where ARE the pins? I can't bear to wait a minute any
more than Viny, when I think of that dear lovely nest, and the
bay-window, and all that sunshine.
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