She came down the stairs with slow feet, pausing a little on each stair, as if to taste the pleasure that was coming to her. She was going out-of-doors—under the sky!  
She pushed open the door at the foot and looked into the small hall—she had been here before. They had hurried her through—into the kitchen, and down to the cellar. They had stayed there a long time—hours and hours—and Mrs. Seabury had held her on her lap and told her stories.
 
She stepped down the last step into the hall. The outside door at the end was open and through it she could see the men at work in the garden—and the warm, shimmering¹ air. She looked, with eager lip, and took a step forward—and remembered—and turned toward the kitchen. Mrs. Seabury had said she must have breakfast first—a good, big breakfast—and then.... She opened the door and looked in. The woman was standing² by the stove. She looked up with a swift glance and nodded to her. “That’s right, dearie. Your breakfast is all ready—you come in and eat it.” She drew up a chair to the table and brought a glass of milk and tucked the napkin under her brown chin, watching her with keen, motherly eyes, while she ate.
 
“That’s a good girl!” she said. She took the empty plate and carried it to the sink. “Now you wait till I’ve washed these—and then—!” She nodded toward the open window.
 
The child slipped down and came over to her and stood beside her while she worked, her eyes full of little, wistful hope. “I’ve most forgot about out-of-doors,” she said.
 
“Oh, you remember it all right. It’s just the same it always was,” said the woman practically. “Now I’ll stir up some meal and we’ll go feed the chicks. I’ve got ten of ’em—little ones.” She mixed the yellow meal and stirred it briskly, and took down her sun-bonnet—and looked at the child dubiously³. “You haven’t any hat,” she said.
 
The child’s hand lifted to the rough cropped hair. “I did have a hat—with red cherries on it,” she suggested.
 
The woman turned away brusquely. “That’s gone—with your other things—I’ll have to tie a handkerchief on you.”
 
She brought a big, coloured kerchief—red with blue spots on it—and bound it over the rough hair—and stood back and looked at it, and reached out her hand. “It won’t do,” she said thoughtfully. The small face, outlined in the smooth folds, had looked suddenly and strangely refined. The woman took off the handkerchief and roughened the hair with careful hand.
 
The child waited patiently. “I don’t need a hat, do I?” she said politely.
 
The woman looked at her again and took up the dish of meal. “You’re all right,” she said, “we shan’t stay long.”
 
“I should like to stay a long, long time!” said Betty.
 
The woman smiled. “You’re going out every day, you know.”
 
“Yes.” The child skipped a little in the clumsy shoes, and they passed into the sunshine.
 
The woman looked about her with practical eyes. In the long rows of the garden the men were at work. But up and down the dusty road—across the plain—no one was in sight, and she stepped briskly toward an open shed, rapping the spoon a little against the side of the basin she carried, and clucking gently.
 
The child beside her moved slowly—looking up at the sky, as if half ............