"You see," said he, while waiting for Rosa Marie to be made somewhat more attractive, "I want you to tell the story to Mrs. Crane, precisely as you told it to me. But don't mention _me_ until you get to the very end."
With her hair brushed and braided and her fat little body stuffed into a pink gingham apron that the Cottagers had laboriously cut down from a wrapper of Mrs. Halliday's, Rosa Marie looked her best, in spite of the fact that she wore no shoes and stockings. She trotted contentedly at Mabel's side; but Bettie, who was supposed to be walking with Mr. Black, pranced delightedly about him in circles, to show her gratitude. Jean and Marjory followed more sedately but with beaming countenances.
Now that Mrs. Crane was no longer poor, she was always dressed very neatly in black silk. Except for that she was precisely the same jolly, good-natured woman that she had been when she lived alone in the little house just across the street from Dandelion Cottage. Now, however, she lived with her brother, Mr. Black, in his big, imposing, but rather gloomy house. She had no husband, he had no wife and neither had any children. Perhaps that is why they were both so fond of the Dandelion Cottagers.
Mrs. Crane was planting bulbs in the garden when Mr. Black ushered his procession in at the gate.
"Bless my soul!" said she, "here you are just in time to help. I always said that if ever I got a chance to plant all the tulip bulbs I wanted, I'd die of pure happiness; but I guess I stand _more_ chance of dying of a broken back. My land! I've planted two thousand three hundred and forty-eight of the best-looking bulbs I ever laid eyes on, and there ain't a hole in those boxes yet. They're all named, too. Here's Rachel Ruish, Rose Grisdelin, Rosy Mundi, Yellow Prince, the Duke of York--think of having _him_ in your front yard--and Lady Grandison, two inches apart, clear to the gate. But land! I suppose a body's tongue'd go lame counting _diamonds_."
"Why don't you let Martin plant them?" asked Mr. Black, with a twinkle in his eye. It was plain that he enjoyed his talkative elderly sister.
"And have them all bloom in China?" retorted Mrs. Crane. "Now you know, Peter, that Martin couldn't get a bulb right end up if there were printed directions on the skin of every bulb. But Jean there, and Bettie----"