“Your father don’t know, Barbara; no, he don’t. Men never know about such things. Now there ain’t much sugar in ’em—”
“Never mind!” interposed the Kid, courageously. “Never mind, Miss Bates, I’ll eat ’em. Jack says”—
“Jack says to let you give ’em and we’ll eat ’em,” continued the Kid, determined to finish his sentence.
Miss Bates glared at him. “Barbara,” she said, “I don’t know why it is, but I get insulted by these children every time I put my nose into this house. Now I don’t want to complain, but I’ve a mind to tell you what Charles did to me last night. I was laying the table for supper, and I’d left the window open for air, and all of a sudden that child’s head was in the window, and he says, ‘Mercy on us, Birdine, is that all you’ve got for supper?’”
The Kid disappeared under the sofa like a whipped dog. Barbara closed her lips tight, to keep from smiling.
“Well, of course,” put in Gassy, “the Kid is always used to plenty of food, you see.”
Miss Bates glared again. “Is that why he wants to eat up my plums?” she inquired. “No, Barbara, I’ll take ’em back, since you won’t let David eat ’em. And I want to tell you now, that I don’t intend to come to this house again under any circumstances, since these children are so rude, till your ma comes home, no matter _how_ long it is!”
“But she’s coming home to-day!” burst from both David and Gassy, in dismayed unison.
Miss Bates gave them a queer look, flashed a disdainful glance at Barbara, and left the house.
“It’s no use to scold you, Charles,” said Barbara, as she extricated the child from his hiding-place. “But I am glad that mother is coming to take the burden of your dreadful speeches. Now see if you _can_ stay good until supper-time.”
She left the room to arrange the details of the feast, and as she passed through the hall, she came upon the letter marked “Personal” which she had left forgotten on the table.
“I declare!” said she, sitting down on the stairs again. “I believe I am going crazy with joy to-day. I have forgotten one thing after another.”
She opened the letter eagerly, and as she did so, stray words caught her eye,—“undoubted talent,”—“unquestionable success,” etc. She turned to the first page and read:—
DEAR LITTLE GIRL,—For you are a little girl to me, and always will be, in spite of your twenty-one years,—I have something to tell you which cannot wait until I reach home. It is also somewhat of a confession, and I am sure that you will absolve me when you have read this.