"I quite understand, Mr. Cromer. But
what part AM I adapted for in the Pageant?"
"If you will, I'd like you to be Maid of the Mist. As I say, I had
thought of a darker type, but with a floating veil of misty grey,
and grey, diaphanous draperies, you would be very effective. Turn
the least bit this way, please."
Patty obeyed directions, while she thought over his idea. "Maid of
the Mist" sounded pretty, and the artist's float was sure to be a
beautiful one.
"Yes, I'll take that part, if you want me to," she said, and Mr.
Cromer said he would design her costume that afternoon.
"Hello, Apple Blossom!" called a big, round voice, and Bill
Farnsworth came strolling along the terrace. Perched on his
shoulder was Baby May, her tiny hands grasping his thick, wavy
hair, and her tiny feet kicking, as she squealed in glee.
"Misser Bill my horsie," she announced. "Me go ridy-by."
"IS there something on my shoulder?" asked Bill, seemingly
unconscious of his burden. "I thought a piece of thistledown
lighted there, but it may have blown off."
"There is a bit of thistledown there," said Patty, "but don't
brush it off. It's rather becoming to you."
"Indeed it is," agreed Cromer. "I'd like to sketch you and that
mite of humanity together.
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