Daisy took off her flat and sat down on the old chintz couch,
with a face of content. Yet it was grave content; not joyous
at all. So Juanita's keen eyes saw, through all the talking
which went on. Daisy and she had a great deal to say to each
other; and among other things the story of Molly came in, and
was enlarged upon; though Daisy left most of her own doings to
be guessed at. She did not tell them more than she could well
help. However, talk went on a good while, and still when it
paused Daisy's face looked thoughtful and careful. So Juanita
saw.
"Is my love quite well?"
"Oh, yes, Juanita. I am quite well. I think I am getting
strong, a little."
Juanita's thanksgiving was earnest. Daisy looked very sober.
"Juanita, I have been wanting to talk to you."
Now they had been talking a good deal; but this, the black
woman saw, was not what Daisy meant.
"What is it, my love?"
"I don't know, Juanita. I think I am puzzled."
The fine face of Mrs. Benoit looked gravely attentive, and a
little anxiously watchful of Daisy's.
"The best way will be to tell you. Juanita, they are — I mean,
we are — playing pictures at home."
"What is that, Miss Daisy?"
"Why, they take pictures — pictures in books, you know — and
dress up people like the people in the pictures, and make them
stand so, or sit so, and look so, as the people in the
pictures do; and so they make a picture of living people.
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