It balanced itself on the limb, leaning over and cocking its bright bead-like eyes at her, as if admiring the sight.
What it saw was a slender girl of eleven, taller than most children of that age, and more graceful.

There was a colour in her cheek like the delicate pink of a wild rose, and the big hazel eyes had a roguish twinkle in them, as they looked out fearlessly on the world from under the little Napoleon hat with its nodding cockade of locust blossoms.
"There's nobody in sight, Tarbaby," said the Little Colonel, "and there isn't time to go in befo' we've been to the post-office, so we might as well be travellin' on." She was turning slowly away when down the pike behind her came the quick beat of a horse's hoofs and a shrill whistle.

A twelve-year-old boy was riding toward her as fast as his big gray horse could carry him.

He was riding bareback, straight and lithe as a young Indian, his cap pushed to the back of his head.

He snatched it off with a flourish as he came within speaking distance of the Little Colonel, his freckled face all ashine with pleasure.
"Hello! Lloyd," he called, "I was just going to your house." "And I was looking for you, Bobby," she answered, as informally as if it were only yesterday they had parted, instead of eight months before.
"Come and go down to the post-office with me.