“Who’s that?” one boy whispered loudly.
Mrs. Allen clapped her hands lightly. “All right now. We have a visitor. You may greet her properly.”
That only piqued the children’s interest.
One boy, perhaps six years old, grinned. “Is she important?”
Mrs. Allen gave him a look. “Henry.”
Beatrice smiled. “Only if you decide I am.”
That earned her a few chuckles.
She went down on one knee, her skirts gathered neatly, bringing herself to their eye level. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Beatrice.”
A girl with blonde hair tilted her head. “You talk funny.”
Beatrice smiled. “So I’ve been told.”
That earned her a giggle.
“I’ve brought a few things to share.”
A girl with a ribbon tied unevenly in her hair crept closer, her eyes fixed on the basket of books. “Are those stories?” she asked.
“Yes,” Beatrice replied. “Some are adventures. Some are quieter. You may choose.”
That was enough.
Two children stepped forward at once, curiosity outweighing their shyness. Another followed.
Soon she was surrounded by small hands, questions tumbling over one another. A boy reached out to touch the hem of her sleeve, then withdrew his hand quickly, as if unsure he was allowed.
Beatrice opened the basket and handed out apples one by one, careful to make eye contact each time.
“What’s your name?” she asked a small boy who accepted his with both hands.
“Thomas.”
“Well, Thomas, you’re holding it like it might run away.”
Thomas looked down at the apple, startled, then giggled.
Mrs. Allen watched from a distance, her arms folded, her expression attentive rather than indulgent.
“You’re welcome to visit again, any time,” she offered quietly when Beatrice glanced up. “They remember kindness.”
“I would like that.” Beatrice smiled.
As the children went back to their lesson, one little girl remained. She couldn’t have been more than one year old, toddling uncertainly near the wall, curls escaping her hair tie.She sucked thoughtfully on her fingers, her eyes wide and solemn.
Beatrice’s breath caught.
The girl wobbled, nearly losing her balance. Without thinking, Beatrice reached out, steadying her gently with two fingers on her waist. The girl leaned into the touch at once, warm and trusting, her small hand closing instinctively around Beatrice’s fingers.
“There,” she murmured, the same word she had used a hundred times before.
The girl smiled openly, trusting.
