her wrinkles. She seemed pitiably old in the midst of all that glow and lustiness of young life.
Among the trees there was a squirrel that had watched her coming; and it began to approach her, now, through the grass, with quick rushes and sudden stops, jerking its tail in a way that made her smile. And when she smiled, all her wrinkles fell into their places on her face in an expression of motherly good-nature that took wonderfully from her years. It was a face that had not soured with age—that was still even comely though it was as yellow as old bones, and withered. She pursed up her lips to call: "Poosy! Poosy!"
The squirrel sat up on the border of the walk, and watched her with the eyes of a rat. She clucked to it. She coaxed it with baby talk; and the sight of its comical spryness set her shaking with the stomachic, tight-lipped chuckle that is the laughter of old folk who have lost their teeth.
It darted forward a yard on the walk, and hesitated until she held out a trembling hand at her knee. Then it crept to her feet, and sat up, sniffing for the expected alms of nuts.
"Purty, purty," she crooned. "'T 's hungry, it is. Dear, aw dear." Her voice had a sweet mellowness of tone, neither cracked nor plaintive, a soft Irish accent, without the breadth of a brogue.
She reached down to touch the squirrel's head. It crouched, turned on a spring, and scurried back to the grass. She looked up to see a man approaching.
