Kitabı oku: «Marjorie's New Friend», sayfa 5
"I know it. We all are."
"She probably stays in the house too much," said Mrs. Maynard. "If you children can persuade her to go out of doors and romp with you, she'll soon get stronger."
"She says she hates to romp," observed Marjorie.
"Then I give her up!" cried King. "No stay-in-the-house girls for me. Say, what do you think, Mops! A straw-ride to-morrow afternoon! Mr. Adams is going to take a big sleigh-load of us! Isn't that gay!"
"Fine!" cried Marjorie, the delicate Delight quite forgotten for the moment, "tell me all about it!"
CHAPTER IX
A STRAW-RIDE
"Then, mother," said Marjorie, as she started for school next morning, "you'll call on Mrs. Spencer this morning and ask her to let Delight go on the straw-ride with us this afternoon. Will you, Mother, will you?"
"Yes, my Midget, I told you I would. But I doubt if she'll let the little girl go."
"So do I, but you coax her. Good-bye, Mother."
With a kiss and a squeeze, Marjorie was off, swinging a strap-full of books till they all tumbled on the ground, and then picking them up again.
"I'll help you, Mops," said King, who had followed her down the path.
"What a tumble-bug you are!"
"Yes, I am. Say, King, do you believe Delight will go with us?"
"Don't know and don't care. She's a Flossy Flouncy, anyway. Too dressy and fiddle-de-dee for me!"
"Oh, you don't know her. I think she's going to be real nice."
"All right. You can have her. Hi! there's Bunny Black; let's run."
Run they did, and Marjorie flew over the ground quite as fast as Kingdon did.
"Hey, Bunny, wait a minute!" So Bunny waited, and then all three trudged on to school; Marjorie in the middle, while they talked over the fun of the coming sleigh-ride.
Mr. Adams, who was the father of Dorothy, Kitty's chum, took the young people on a straw-ride every winter, if the sleighing happened to be good just at the right time.
The trip was always made out to Ash Grove, the pleasant farm home of Mr. Adams' aunt, and the old lady heartily welcomed the crowd of laughing children that invaded her quiet abode.
After school, Marjorie and King and Kitty ran home to eat a hearty luncheon, and get ready for the great event.
It was a perfect winter day; crisp, clear air, bright sunshine, fine sleighing, and no wind.
"Mothery," called Marjorie, as she entered the house, "where are you?"
"Here I am, dear, in the library. Don't come a like a whirlwind."
"No'm. I'll come in like a gentle summer breeze," and Midget tripped lightly in, waving her skirts as she side-stepped, and greeting her mother with a low bow.
"What about Delight?" she asked, at once, "can she go?"
"Yes, she's going," answered Mrs. Maynard, "but I don't think her mother wants her to go very much. I went over there this morning, and after making my call on the lady, I delivered the invitation for the daughter. Delight was most anxious to go, and coaxed her mother so hard, that Mrs. Spencer finally said yes, though I'm sure it was against her will."
"Is Delight's cold well?"
"I think so, or her mother wouldn't let her go. She'll be more or less in your charge, Marjorie, so do look after her, and don't be thoughtless and heedless."
"How do you like Mrs. Spencer, Mother?"
"She's a very pleasant lady, my dear, and Delight is a beautiful child."
"Yes, isn't she pretty! I'm so glad she's going with us."
The straw-ride was of the real old-fashioned sort.
A big box-sleigh, well filled with clean straw, and with plenty of warm robes, made a cosy nest for a dozen laughing children.
Except for Delight, the Maynards were the last ones to be picked up, and when the jingling sleigh-bells and the chorus of voices was heard, they ran out and were gaily greeted by the others.
"Hop in, Kitty; here, I'll help you. In you go, Midget!" and genial Mr. Adams jumped the girls in, while King climbed over the side by himself.
Then Mr. Adams went back to his seat beside the driver, and they crossed the street to call for Delight.
She was watching at the window, and came out as the sleigh drove up.
She was so bundled up in wraps and scarfs and veils, that they could scarcely see her face at all, but Marjorie introduced her to the others, and then Delight cuddled down in the straw close to Marjorie's side.
"Isn't it strange?" she whispered. "I never saw a sleigh before without seats in it. Won't we fall out?"
"No, indeed!" answered King, heartily; "that's just what we won't do.
Unless when we strike a bump."
Just then they did "strike a bump," and Delight was almost frightened at the jounce she received.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "it—it takes your breath away,—but—but I think it's very nice."
"Plucky girl!" said King, and as that was the highest compliment he could pay a girl, Marjorie felt a thrill of pleasure that King was going to like Delight after all.
"I think you'd like it better without that awful thick veil over your face," King went on. "You can't see the snow through that, can you?"
"No, I can't," said Delight, and she pulled off her veil, leaving her roseleaf face, with its crown of golden curls exposed to view. A hood of white swansdown was tied under her chin with white ribbons, and her smile, though shy, was very sweet.
"That's better!" cried King, approvingly. "Now we can see what you say.
Whoo-oo!!"
King blew a sudden blast on a tin horn which he drew from his pocket, and as all the boys in the sleigh, and some of the girls did the same, the noise was deafening.
Delight looked startled, and no wonder, but Marjorie reassured her by saying:
"Don't let that scare you. It's the signal that we've crossed the city limits. They always toot when we cross the line. I don't, 'cause I hate to blow a horn, and anyway, there's noise enough without me."
"I should say there was!" said Delight, for the boys were still tooting now and then, and there was gay laughter and shouting.
"Haven't you ever been on a straw-ride before?" asked Ethel Frost, who sat the other side of Delight.
"No, I never have. I've always lived in the city."
"Stuck-up!" thought Ethel, but she said nothing. It was a peculiar but deep-seated notion among the Rockwell children, that any one from the city would look down on them and their simple pleasures, and they foolishly, but none the less strongly resented it.
And so, poor Delight had unwittingly said the worst thing she could say by way of her own introduction.
"Do you like the city best?" said Harry Frost, who sat opposite the girls.
"I don't know yet," said Delight, honestly; "it's all so different here."
This was not helping matters, and Harry only said "Huh!" and turned to talk to King.
Ethel, too, seemed uninterested in the city girl, and as Marjorie felt herself, in a way, responsible for the little stranger, she spoke up, loyally:
"Of course she can't tell yet, but of course she will like Rockwell as soon as she gets more used to it, and if she doesn't like the Rockwell boys and girls, it'll be their own fault. So there, now!"
"I do like them," said Delight, with her shy little smile; "and I think I can get used to those awful horns that they blow."
"Good for you, Flossy Flouncy!" cried King, and the nickname so suited the pretty, dainty little girl, that it clung to her ever after.
But though she tried, Delight couldn't seem to adopt the ways of the other children. They were a hearty, rollicking crowd, full of good-natured chaff, and boisterous nonsense, and Delight, who had lived much alone, was bewildered at their noise and fun.
But she slipped her hand from her pretty white muff, and tucked it into
Marjorie's, who gave her a squeeze that meant sympathy and encouragement.
Midget was beginning to realize that the more she saw of Delight, the better she liked her. And the brave way in which the little girl met the coolness and indifference that were shown her, roused Marjorie's sense of justice, and she at once began to stand up for her.
And when Marjorie Maynard stood up for anybody, it meant a great deal to the youthful population of Rockwell. For Midget was a general favorite, and since Gladys was gone there were several girls who would gladly have stepped into her place in Marjorie's affections. They had begged to share her desk at school, but Midget didn't want any one to do that, so she still sat alone each day.
And now, she had this new girl under her wing, and she was beginning to make it felt that she was Delight's champion, and the others could act accordingly.
"Do you like coasting?" said Ethel Frost, as they passed a fine hill dotted with boys and girls and sleds.
"Yes, I love it!" replied Delight, her blue eyes sparkling as she watched the sleds fly downhill.
"Why, Flossy Flouncy!" cried King; "you couldn't go coasting! I don't believe you've ever tried it!"
"I never did but once," said Delight, "and then the hill wasn't very good, but it was fun. I'd love to go on a hill like that."
"Would your mother let you?" said Marjorie doubtfully.
"No, I don't believe she would. But I'd coax her till she had to."
"That's right," said King. "We'll go to-morrow, and then you'll see what real coasting is."
It was not a very long ride to their destination, and at last the sleigh turned in at a farm entrance and passed through a long winding avenue of trees to the house.
It was an old yellow farmhouse, big and capacious, and in the doorway stood a smiling-faced little old lady awaiting them.
This was Miss Adams, Dorothy's grand-aunt, and called Auntie Adams by all the children who visited her. They all tumbled out of the sleigh, and ran laughing into the house.
Each was greeted by Miss Adams, and cries of "Where's Ponto?" and "Oh, here's Polly!" and "Hello, Tabby," were heard.
"This is Delight Spencer," said Marjorie, as she presented her to Miss Adams; "she's a new friend of mine, and Mr. Adams said I might bring her."
"I'm very glad to see you, my dear," said Miss Adams, kissing the wistful little face; "you are welcome to the old farm."
"I've never seen a farmhouse before," said Delight, as she glanced round at the old mahogany furniture and brass candlesticks shining in the firelight from the big fireplace; "and, oh, isn't it beautiful!"
Miss Adams was much pleased at this honest compliment to her old home, and she patted Delight's shoulder, as she said: "I'm sure we shall be great friends, you and I. Run away now, with Marjorie, and lay off your wraps in the north bedroom."
The girls went up the short turning staircase, and into a quaint old-fashioned bedroom, with four-poster bed, chintz hangings, and fine old carved furniture.
"Isn't it strange?" said Delight, looking about. "I suppose the ladies who used to live here are dead and gone. I mean, the old ancestors of Miss Adams. Let's play we're them, Marjorie. You be Priscilla and I'll be Abigail."
"Not very pretty names," said Midget, doubtfully.
"Oh, yes, they are. I'll call you Prissy and you call me Abby. I'll be knitting, and you can be spinning on that spinning-wheel."
The others had gone downstairs, but forgetting all about them, Delight sat herself stiffly in one of the high-backed old chairs, and knitted industriously, with invisible yarn and only her own slender little fingers for needles.
Always ready for make-believe play Marjorie sat at the spinning-wheel,—on the wrong side, to be sure, but that didn't matter.
"Are you going to the ball at Squire Harding's?" said Delight, in a prim voice.
"Yes, that I am," said Marjorie. "Half the county will be there. I shall wear my blue brocade, with collar of pearls."
"How fair thou wilt look! I have but my crimson taffeta turned and made over. But I have a new wimple."
"What is a wimple, Delight?"
"I don't know exactly, but they wore them once. We're not sisters you know, I'm just calling on you; I'm quite poor. Ah, Prissy, I would I could achieve a new gown for the ball. My lady Calvert will be there, and she is of the quality, forsooth."
"Aye, Abby, but thou art more beautiful in thy ragged garb, than she in her stiff satins."
"Sayest thou so? Thou dost but flatter. But among all my noble ancestors, the Adamses, there was never a woman aught but fair; or a man aught but brave!"
Delight said this in a high, stilted voice, and as she sat primly in the straight-backed old chair, knitting away at nothing, she presented a funny, attractive little picture.
Miss Adams, who had come in search of the girls, paused at the door, and heard Delight's words.
"You dear child!" she cried; "you dramatic small person! What are you two doing?"
"We fell to playing, Miss Adams," said Marjorie, "and we forgot to go downstairs."
"We couldn't help it," supplemented Delight. "This old room and dear old furniture just made me think I really was a Colonial Dame, so we played we were."
"You're a treasure!" said Miss Adams, clasping Delight in her arms. "As for Midget, here, she's always been my treasure, too. I think some day you two little girls must come and visit me, all by yourselves, will you?"
"Yes, indeed we will."
"But now, come downstairs, and join the games down there."
Down they went, and found the gay party playing Fox and Geese.
Marjorie was an adaptable nature, and equally well pleased with any game, so she flung herself into the circle, and ran about as gaily as any one. But Delight shrank away from the frolic, and asked to be allowed to look on.
"No, indeed, Flossy Flouncy!" cried Harry Frost. "You must play our games, if you want us to like you. Come on, we won't hurt you."
"Come on in, the water's fine!" called King, and Delight reluctantly took the place assigned her.
She tried to do as the others did, but long practice had made them alert and skillful, while she was inexperienced at such sports. She became bewildered at the quick changes of position, and as a result was soon caught, and had to be the "Fox."
Then the situation was hopeless, for it was impossible for Delight to catch any of the quick-witted and quick-moving "geese," who darted in and out, tapping her shoulder, when she should have tapped theirs, and teasing her for being slow.
They were not intentionally rude, these gay-spirited young people, but a girl who couldn't play Fox and Geese seemed to them a justifiable butt for ridicule. Determined to succeed, Delight ran from one to another, arriving just too late every time. The unfamiliar exercise wearied her, her cheeks glowed pink with mortification at her repeated failures, and her breath came quickly, but she was plucky and kept up her brave efforts.
Kingdon saw this, and admired the spirit she showed.
"Look here, Flossy Flouncy," he said, not unkindly, "you've been Fox long enough; now I'll be Fox, and you sit down on the sofa and get rested."
Delight looked at him gratefully, and without a word she went and sat on the sofa and Miss Adams came and sat by her and put her arm round the trembling child. Soon after this, the game was stopped because supper was announced.
Delight sat between Marjorie and King, and though she ate but little she enjoyed seeing the delicious country viands that were served.
Little chicken pies, a whole one to each person; flaky biscuits, and golden butter; home-made ice cream and many sorts of home-made cakes and jellies and preserves. The hungry children disposed of an enormous quantity of these pleasant things, but Miss Adams was not surprised at their appetites, for this was an annual experience with her.
After supper, they sang songs. Miss Adams sat at her old-fashioned square piano, and played some well-known songs in which they all joined.
"I heard a song on a phonograph, the other day," said Harry Frost; "it was about a bonnie lassie. Do you know that, Miss Adams?"
"No, dear boy, I don't. I'm sorry. Can't you sing it without the piano?"
"No, I don't know it. But I'd like to hear it again."
"I know it," said Delight, timidly. "If you want me to, I'll sing it."
She looked so shy and sweet, that there was nothing forward about her offer, merely a desire to please.
"Do, my dear," said Miss Adams, giving her place to the child.
Delight sat down at the piano, and striking a few chords, began: "I know a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie," and sang it through in a sweet, childish voice.
"That's it!" cried Harry, as she finished. "Jiminy! but you're a singer, all right."
There was much applause, and requests for more songs, but Delight, overcome by attracting so much attention, turned bashful again and couldn't be persuaded to sing any more.
However, it was time to go home, so they all bundled into their wraps again, and clambered into the sleigh.
Delight was quiet all the way home, and sat with her hand clasped close in Marjorie's.
"Good-night," she whispered, as she got out at her own house. "Good-night, Marjorie dear. I thank you for a pleasant time, but I don't believe I want to go again."
"Oh, yes, you will," Marjorie whispered back. "Don't be so easily discouraged."
CHAPTER X
MAKING VALENTINES
"Now, what do you think of a girl like that?" Marjorie exclaimed, as she finished a description of Delight's behavior on the straw-ride.
"I think she's a little lady," said Mr. Maynard, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye, "and she was pretty well frightened by the noisy fun of the Rockwell young people."
"But, Father," said King, "we didn't do anything wrong, or even rude, but of course, you can't go on a straw-ride and sit as still as if you were in church, can you?"
"No," said Mrs. Maynard, taking up King's cause; "children are meant to be noisy, especially on a sleighing party. But I wouldn't worry about the little Spencer girl. If she continues to live here, she can't help doing as you young Romans do, after a time."
"Ho!" cried King. "Imagine Flossy Flouncy tumbling around like our
Midget. Hi, there, sister, you're it!"
King clapped Marjorie on the back and then ran around the dining-table, from which they had all just risen.
"Kit's it!" cried Marjorie, clapping Kitty in turn.
"Nope, I had my fingers crossed," said Kitty, exhibiting her twisted digits, and calmly walking out of the room, her arm through her father's.
"All right, I'll catch you, King," and Marjorie made a dive for him.
He was wary, and just as she nearly touched him, he stooped and slid under the table. After him went Midget, and of course, scrambled under just as King dodged up on the other side.
Out came Marjorie, flying after King, who raced up the front stairs and down the back ones, landing in the kitchen with a wild shriek of, "Hide me, Ellen, she's after me!"
"Arrah, ye bletherin' childher!" cried Ellen, "ye're enough to set a saint crhazy wid yer rally poosin'! In there wid ye, now!"
The good-natured Irishwoman pushed King in a small cupboard, and stood with her back against the door.
"What'll ye have, Miss Marjorie?" she said, as Midget rushed in half a minute later.
"Where's King?" asked Marjorie, breathless and panting.
"Masther King, is it? I expict he's sthudyin' his schoolbooks like the little gintleman he is. Shkip out, now, Miss Marjorie, dear, I must be doin' me work."
"All right, Ellen, go on and do it. Go on now, why don't you? Why don't you, Ellen? Do you have to stand against that door to keep it shut?"
"Yes, Miss, the,—the lock is broke, sure."
"Oh, is it? Well, you go on to your work, and I'll hold the door shut for a while."
"Och, I cuddent think of throublin' ye, Miss. Run on, now, happen yer mother is wantin' ye."
"Happen she isn't. Scoot, Ellen, and give me a chance at that door."
Unable to resist Midget's wheedling glance, the big Irishwoman moved away from the door, and Marjorie threw it open, and disclosed King, calmly sitting on a flour barrel.
As he was fairly caught, the game was over, and the two, with intertwined arms rejoined the family.
"Good race?" said Mr. Maynard, looking at the exhausted runners.
"Fine!" said Marjorie. "You see, Father, Delight has no brothers or sisters, so how could she be very racketty? She couldn't play tag with her mother or father, could she?"
"I think you'd play tag with the Pope of Rome, if you couldn't get any one else."
"That would be rather fun," said Midget, laughing, "only I s'pose his robes and things would trip him up. But I do believe he'd like it. I don't 'spect he has much fun, anyway. Does he?"
"Not of that sort, probably. But, Midget mine, there are other sorts of fun beside tearing up and down stairs like a wild Indian."
"Yes, and one sort is playing 'Authors'; come on, and have a game, will you, Father?"
"I'll give you half an hour," said Mr. Maynard, looking at his watch.
"That's all I can spare for my wild Indians this evening."
"Goody!" cried Midget, "half an hour is quite a lot. Come on, King and
Kit. Will you play, Mother?"
"Not now, I have some things I must attend to. I'll take Father's place when his half-hour is up."
So they settled down to "Authors," which was one of their favorite games, and of which they never tired. "Delight would like this," said Marjorie, as she took a trick; "she's fond of quiet games. Mother, may I go over to-morrow afternoon and make valentines with her?"
"Yes, if you like, dearie," replied Mrs. Maynard.
"May I go, too?" said Kitty.
"No, Kitty, I want you at home to-morrow. The seamstress will be cutting your new frock, and you must be here to try it on when she wants you."
"All right, Mother. May I ask Dorothy here, then?"
"Yes, if you like. But you must stay in the house."
"Yes'm, we will."
The Maynards were obedient children, and though sometimes disappointed, never demurred at their parents' decrees. They had long ago learned that such demurring would do no good, and that to obey pleasantly made things pleasanter all round.
After luncheon the next day, Marjorie got ready to go to spend the afternoon with Delight.
She wore her new plaid dress trimmed with black velvet and gilt buttons, and as red was the prevailing color in the plaid, her dark curls were tied up with a big red bow.
Very pretty she looked as she came for her mother's inspection.
"Am I all right, Mother?"
"Yes, Midget mine; you look as spick and span as a nice little Queen of Sheba. Now don't slide down the banisters, or do anything hoydenish. Try to behave more as Delight does."
"Oh, I'm bound to be good over there. And making valentines is nice, quiet work. May I stay till six, Mother?"
"No, come home at half-past five. That's late enough for little Queens of
Sheba to stay away from their mothers."
"All right, I'll skip at five-thirty. Good-bye, Mothery dearie."
With a kiss and a squeeze Marjorie was off, and Mrs. Maynard watched her from the window, until she disappeared through the Spencers' doorway.
"I'm so glad to see you!" said Delight, as Marjorie came dancing into her room. "Everything's all ready. You sit over there."
So Midget sat down opposite her friend at a long, low table, on which were all the valentine materials laid out in readiness.
"What beautiful things," cried Midget; "but I don't know how to make valentines."
"I'll show you. It's awfully easy, and lots of fun."
It was easy for Delight. Her deft little fingers pinched up bits of tissue paper into charming little rosebuds or forget-me-nots, and her dainty taste chose lovely color combinations.
Marjorie's quick wits soon caught the idea, and though not quite so nimble-fingered as Delight, she soon showed an inventive originality that devised novel ideas.
Sometimes they only took the round or square lace papers, and mounted them on cards, and added little scrap pictures of doves or cupids or flowers.
Then some of them were quite different. Delight cut a heart-shaped piece of cardboard, and round the edge dabbled an irregular border of gold paint. The inside she tinted pink all over, and on it wrote a loving little verse in gilt letters.
This, though simple, was such a pretty card, that Marjorie made one like it, adding a garland of roses across it, which made it prettier still.
Then they made pretty ones of three panel cards. To do this they took an oblong card, and cut it half through with a penknife in such a way that it divided the card into three parts, the outside two shutting over the middle one like window blinds over a window.
The card would stand up like a screen, and they decorated each panel with posies and verses.
"What are you going to do with all these valentines?" asked Midget, as they were busily working away at them.
"Half are yours," said Delight, "and half are mine. We can each send them wherever we please. Of course I'll send most of mine to friends in New York; I haven't any friends here."
"Indeed you have!" cried Midget. "Don't be silly. You've three Maynard friends, to begin with; and all the boys and girls are your friends, only you don't know them yet. I'll tell you what to do. You send valentines to all the Rockwell children,—I mean all our crowd, and they'll just love 'em. Will you?"
"Why, yes, if you think I can when I don't know them very well. I can easily make enough for them and my New York set too."
"Yes, do; I'll help you, if I get mine done first. And anyway, it's 'most two weeks before Valentine's day."
"Oh, there's plenty of time. Look, isn't this a pretty one?"
Delight held up a card on which she had painted with her water colors a clouded blue sky effect. And on it, in a regular flight, she had pasted tiny birds that she found among the scrap pictures.
"Lovely!" said Midget; "you ought to have a verse about birds on it."
"I don't know any verse about birds, do you?"
"No; let's make one up."
"Yes, we could do that. It ought to go some-thing like this: 'The swallows tell that Spring is here, so flies my heart to you, my dear.'"
"Yes, that's nice and valentiny,—but it isn't Spring in February."
"No, but that's poetic. Valentines have to be love-poems, and Spring is 'most always in a love-poem."
"Yes, I s'pose it is. I'd like to do some funny ones. I'm not much good at sentimental poetry. I guess I'll do one for King. Here's a picture of a bird carrying a ring in its beak. Ring rhymes with King, you know."
"Oh, yes, make one of those limerick things: 'There was a young fellow named King,—'"
"That's the kind I mean. Write that down while I paste. Then write: 'Who sent to his lady a ring.' Now what next?"
"Something like this: 'He said, "Sweet Valentine, I pray you be mine."
And she answered him, "No such a thing!"'"
"Oh, that's a good one. Do send that to your brother. But it hasn't much sense to it."
"No, they never have. Now, I'll make one for Kit: 'There was a dear girlie named Kit, who was having a horrible fit.'"
"That isn't a bit valentiny."
"No, I know it. This is a funny one. We'll make her another pretty one. 'When they said, "Are you better?" she wrote them a letter in which she replied, "Not a bit!"'"
"I think that's sort of silly," said Delight, looking at the rhymes she had written at Midget's dictation.
"Yes, I know it is," returned Marjorie, cheerfully. "It's nonsense, and that's 'most always silly. But Kit loves it, and so do I. We make up awful silly rhymes sometimes. You don't know Kitty very well yet, do you? She's only ten, but she plays pretend games lovely. Better'n I do. She has such gorgeous language. I don't know where she gets it."
"It comes," said Delight, with a far-away look in her eyes. "I have it too. You can't remember that you've ever heard it anywhere; the words just come of themselves."
"But you must have heard them, or read them," said practical Midget.
"Yes, I suppose so. But it doesn't seem like memory. It's just as if you had always known them. Sometimes I pretend all to myself. And I'm a princess."
"I knew you would be! Kit said so too. She likes to be a princess. But I like to be a queen. You might as well be, you know, when you're just pretending."
"Yes, you'd be a splendid queen. You're so big and strong. But I like to be a princess, and 'most always I'm captive, in a tower, waiting for somebody to rescue me."
"Come on, let's play it now," said Marjorie, jumping up. "I'm tired of pasting things, and we can finish these some other day. You be a captive princess, and I'll be a brave knight coming to rescue you."
But just then Mrs. Spencer appeared, carrying a tray on which were glasses of milk, crackers, and dear little cakes, and the two girls concluded they would postpone their princess play till a little later.
"I'm so bothered," said Mrs. Spencer, in her tired, plaintive voice, as she sat down with the children; "I cannot get good servants to stay with me here. I had no trouble in the city at all. Does your mother have good servants, Marjorie?"
"Yes, Mrs. Spencer, I think so. They're the ones we've always had."
"Well, mine wouldn't come with me from the city, so I had to get some here. And the cook has a small child, and to-day he's ill,—really quite ill,—and the waitress is helping the cook, and so I had to bring up this tray myself."
"Can't I help you in some way, Mrs. Spencer?" asked Marjorie, impulsively. It was her nature to be helpful, though it would never have occurred to Delight to make such an offer.
"No, dear child; there's nothing you could do. But the doctor is down there now, to see the little one, and I fear if the child is very ill, cook will have to leave, and what to do then, I don't know."
"Perhaps the child is only a little sick," said Midge, who wanted to be comforting, but did not know quite what to say to comfort a grown-up lady.
"We'll soon know, after the doctor makes his decision," said Mrs.
Spencer. "Oh, that's Maggie crying. I'm afraid it's a bad case."
Sure enough, sounds of loud sobbing could be heard from the direction of the kitchen, and Mrs. Spencer hurried away to learn what had happened.
"It must be awful," said Marjorie, "to be a cook and have your little boy ill, and no time to attend to him, because you have to cook for other people."
Delight stared at her.
"I think the awful part," she said, "is to have your cook's baby get ill, so she can't cook your dinner."
"Delight, that is selfish, and I don't think you ought to talk so."
"I don't think it's selfish to want the services of your own servants. That's what you have them for,—to cook and work for you. They oughtn't to let their little boys get sick."
