The family for the paper-doll house was selected from the catalogues that illustrate ready-made clothing. Beautiful gentlemen were cut out, dressed in the most approved fashions for men. Charming ladies with trailing skirts and elaborate hats were found in plenty. And children of all ages were so numerous in the prints that it was almost difficult to make a selection. Then, too, extra hats and wraps and parasols were cut out, which could be neatly put away in the cupboards and wardrobes which were in the house. For Marjorie had discovered that by pasting only the edges of the wardrobe and carefully cutting the doors apart, they could be made to open and shut beautifully.
Uncle Steve became very much interested in these wonderful houses, and ransacked his own library for pictures to be cut up.
Indeed, so elaborate did the houses grow to be, Molly's being greatly enlarged and improved, that they could not be finished in one morning.
But Grandma was not willing to let Marjorie work steadily at this occupation all day, and after dinner Molly was sent home, and the paper dolls put away until the next day.
"But I'm not ill, Grandma," said Marjorie; "just having a sprained ankle doesn't make me a really, truly invalid."
"No, but you must rest, or you will get ill. Fever may set in, and if you get over-excited with your play, and have no exercise, you may be in bed longer than you think for. Besides, I think I remember having heard something about implicit obedience, and so I expect it now as well as when you're up on your two feet."
"I don't think I can help obeying," said Marjorie, roguishly, "for I can't very well do anything else. But I suppose you mean obey without fretting; so I will, for you are a dear, good Grandma and awfully kind to me."
With a parting pat on her shoulder, Grandma left the little girl for her afternoon nap, and Marjorie would have been surprised at herself had she known how quickly she fell asleep.
Uncle Steve made it a habit to entertain her during the later hours of each afternoon, and, although they were already great chums, his gayety and kindness made Marjorie more than ever devoted to her uncle.
This afternoon he came in with a handful of letters.
"These are all for you," he said; "it is astonishing what a large correspondence you have."
Marjorie was amazed. She took the budget of letters her uncle handed her and counted five. They were all duly stamped, and all were postmarked, but the postmarks all read Haslemere.
"How funny!" exclaimed Marjorie; "I didn't know there was a post office at Haslemere."
"You didn't!" exclaimed Uncle Steve; "why, there certainly is. Do you mean to say that you don't know that there's a little post office in the lowest branch of that old maple-tree down by the brook?"
"You mean just where the path turns to go to the garden?"
"That's the very spot. Only this morning I was walking by there, and I saw a small post office in the tree. There was a key in the door of it, and being curious, I opened it, and looked in. There I saw five letters for you, and as you're not walking much this summer, I thought I'd bring them to you. I brought the key, too."
As he finished speaking, Uncle Steve drew from his pocket a little bright key hung on a blue ribbon, which he gravely presented to Marjorie. Her eyes danced as she took it, for she now believed there was really a post office there, though it was sometimes difficult to distinguish Uncle Steve's nonsense from the truth.
"Now I'm more than ever anxious to get well," she cried, "and go out to see that post office."
"Oh, no," said Uncle Steve, shaking his head; "you don't care about post offices and walks in the woods, and drives through the country. You'd rather slide down an old barn roof, and then lie in bed for a week."
"Catch me doing it again," said Marjorie, shaking her head decidedly; "and now, Uncle, suppose we open these letters."
"Why, that wouldn't be a bad idea. Here's a paper-cutter. Let's open one at a time, they'll last longer. Suppose you read this one first."
Marjorie opened the first letter, and quickly turned the page to see the signature.
"Why, Uncle Steve," she cried, "this is signed Ned and Dick! I didn't know horses could write letters."
"There are a great many things, my child, that you don't know yet. And so Ned and Dick have written to you! Now that's very kind of them. Read me what they say."
In great glee, Marjorie read aloud:
"DEAR MARJORIE:It is too badFor you to act this way;Just think what fun we might have hadOut driving every day.
"We could have gone to Blossom Banks,Or Maple Grove instead;But no, you had to cut up pranksThat landed you in bed!
"We hope you'll soon be well again,And get downstairs right quick;And we will all go driving then.Your true friends,
"Well, I do declare," said Uncle Steve, "I always said they were intelligent horses, but this is the first time I've ever heard of their writing a letter. They must be very fond of you, Marjorie."
Marjorie's eyes twinkled. She well knew Uncle Steve had written the letter himself, but she was always ready to carry out her part of a joke, so she replied:
"Yes, I think they must be fond of me, and I think I know somebody else who is, too. But it was nice of Ned and Dick to write and let me know that they hadn't forgotten me. And as soon as I can get downstairs, I shall be delighted to go driving with them. Where is Blossom Banks, Uncle?"
"Oh, it's a lovely place, a sort of picnic ground; there are several grassy banks, and blossoms grow all over them. They slope right down to the river; but, of course, you wouldn't think them nearly so nice as a sloping barn roof."
Marjorie knew she must stand teasing from Uncle Steve, but his smile was so good-natured, and he was such a dear old uncle anyway, that she didn't mind it very much.
"Suppose I read another letter," she said, quite ready to turn the subject.
"Do; open that one with the typewritten address. I wonder who could have written that! Perhaps the cow; she's very agile on the typewriter."
The mental picture of the cow using the typewriter produced such hilarity that it was a few moments before the letter was opened.
"It IS from the cow!" exclaimed Marjorie, "and she does write beautifully on the machine. I don't see a single error."
"Read it out, Midge; I always love to hear letters from cows."
So Marjorie read the cow's note:
"Mopsy Midge, come out to play;I've waited for you all the day.In the Garden and by the brook,All day for you I vainly look.With anxious brow and gaze intenseI lean against the old rail fence,And moo and moo, and moo, and moo,In hopes I may be heard by you.And if I were not so forlorn,I think I'd try to blow my horn.Oh, come back, Midget, come back now,And cheer your lonely, waiting
Cow."
"Now, that's a first-class letter," declared Uncle Steve. "I always thought that cow was a poet. She looks so romantic when she gazes out over the bars. You ought to be pleased, Marjorie, that you have such loving friends at Haslemere."
"Pleased! I'm tickled to death! I never had letters that I liked so well. And just think, I have three left yet that I haven't opened. I wonder who they can be from."
"When you wonder a thing like that, it always seems to me a good idea to open them and find out."
"I just do believe I will! Why, this one," and Marjorie hastily tore open another letter, "this one, Uncle, is from old Bet!"
"Betsy! That old horse! Well, she must have put on her spectacles to see to write it. But I suppose when she saw Ned and Dick writing, she didn't want them to get ahead of her, so she went to work too. Well, do read it, I'm surely interested to hear old Betsy's letter."
"Listen then," said Marjorie:
I'm lonesome here,Without your merry smiles to cheer.I mope around the livelong day,And scarcely care to munch my hay.I am so doleful and so sad,I really do feel awful bad!Oh hurry, Midge, and come back soon;Perhaps to-morrow afternoon.And then my woe I will forget,And smile again.
Your lonesome BET"
"Well, she is an affectionate old thing," said Uncle Steve; "and truly, Midget, I thought she was feeling lonesome this morning. She didn't seem to care to eat anything, and she never smiled at me at all."
"She's a good old horse, Uncle, but I don't like her as much as I do Ned and Dick. But don't ever tell Betsy this, for I wouldn't hurt her feelings for anything."
"Oh, yes, just because Ned and Dick are spirited, fast horses you like them better than poor, old Betsy, who used to haul you around when you were a baby."
"Oh, I like her well enough; and, anyway, I think a heap more of her now, since she wrote me such an affectionate letter. Now, Uncle, if you'll believe it, this next one is from the chickens! Would you have believed that little bits of yellow chickens, in an incubator, could write a nice, clear letter like this? I do think it's wonderful! Just listen to it:
WhyAre you away?We weep and cryAll through the day.
"Oh, come back quick,Dear Mopsy Mop!Then each small chickWill gayly hop.
"We'll chirp with glee,No more we'll weep;Each chickadeeWill loudly peep."
"Well, that's certainly fine, Midget, for such little chickens. If it were the old hen, now, I wouldn't be so surprised, for I see her scratching on the ground every day. I suppose she's practising her writing lesson, but I never yet have been able to read the queer marks she makes. But these little yellow chickadees write plainly enough, and I do think they are wonderfully clever."
"Yes, and isn't it funny that they can rhyme so well, too?"
"It is, indeed. I always said those Plymouth Rocks were the smartest chickens of all, but I never suspected they could write poetry."
"And now, Uncle, I've only one left." Marjorie looked regretfully at the last letter, wishing there were a dozen more. "But I can keep them and read them over and over again, I like them so much. I'd answer them, but I don't believe those animals read as well as they write."
"No," said Uncle Steve, wagging his head sagely, "I don't believe they do. Well, read your last one, Mops, and let's see who wrote it."
"Why, Uncle, it's from the dogs! It's signed 'Nero and Tray and Rover'! Weren't they just darling to write to me! I believe I miss the dogs more than anything else, because I can have Puffy up here with me."
Marjorie paused long enough to cuddle the little heap of grey fur that lay on the counterpane beside her, and then proceeded to read the letter:
"Dear Mopsy Midget,We're in a fidget,Because we cannot find you;We want to knowHow you could goAnd leave your dogs behind you!
"We bark and howl,And snarl and yowl,And growl the whole day long;You are not here,And, Mopsy dear,We fear there's something wrong!
"We haven't heard;Oh, send us wordWhatever is the matter!Oh, hurry upAnd cheer each pupWith laughter and gay chatter."
"That's a very nice letter," said Marjorie, as she folded it up and returned it to its envelope. "And I do think the animals at Haslemere are the most intelligent I have ever known. Uncle, I'm going to send these letters all down home for King and Kitty to read, and then they can send them back to me, for I'm going to keep them all my life."
"I'll tell you a better plan than that, Midget. If you want the children to read them, I'll make copies of them for you to send home. And then I'll tell you what you might do, if you like. When I go downtown I'll buy you a great big scrapbook, and then you can paste these letters in, and as the summer goes on, you can paste in all sorts of things; pressed leaves or flowers, pictures and letters, and souvenirs of all sorts. Won't that be nice?"
"Uncle Steve, it will be perfectly lovely! You do have the splendidest ideas! Will you get the book to-morrow?"
"Yes, Miss Impatience, I will."
And that night, Marjorie fell asleep while thinking of all the lovely things she could collect to put in the book, which Uncle Steve had told her she must call her Memory Book.
The days of Marjorie's imprisonment went by pleasantly enough. Every morning Molly would come over, and they played with their paper-doll houses. These houses continually grew in size and beauty. Each girl added a second book, which represented grounds and gardens. There were fountains, and flowerbeds and trees and shrubs, which they cut from florists' catalogues; other pages were barns and stables, and chicken-coops, all filled with most beautiful specimens of the animals that belonged in them. There were vegetable gardens and grape arbors and greenhouses, for Uncle Steve had become so interested in this game that he brought the children wonderful additions to their collections.
It was quite as much fun to arrange the houses and grounds as it was to play with them, and each new idea was hailed with shrieks of delight.
Molly often grew so excited that she upset the paste-pot, and her scraps and cuttings flew far and wide, but good-natured Jane was always ready to clear up after the children. Jane had been with Mrs. Sherwood for many years, and Marjorie was her favorite of all the grandchildren, and she was never too tired to wait upon her. She, too, hunted up old books and papers that might contain some contributions to the paper-doll houses. But afternoons were always devoted to rest, until four or five o'clock, when Uncle Steve came to pay his daily visit.
One afternoon he came in with a fresh budget of letters.
"Letters!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Goody! I haven't had any letters for two days. Please give them to me, Uncle, and please give me a paper-cutter."
"Midge," said Uncle Steve, "if you think these are letters, you're very much mistaken. They're not."
"What are they, then?" asked Marjorie, greatly mystified, for they certainly looked like letters, and were sealed and stamped.
"As I've often told you, it's a good plan to open them and see."
Laughing in anticipation at what she knew must be some new joke ofUncle Steve's, Marjorie cut the envelopes open.
The first contained, instead of a sheet of paper, a small slip, on which was written:
"If you think this a letter, you're much mistook; It's only a promise of a New Book!"
"Well," said Marjorie, "that's just as good as a letter, for if you promise me a book, I know I'll get it. Oh, Uncle, you are such a duck! Now I'll read the next one."
The next one was a similar slip, and said:
"This isn't a letter, though like one it seems; It's only a promise ofChocolate Creams!"
"Oh!" cried Marjorie, ecstatically, "this is just too much fun for anything! Do you mean real chocolate creams, Uncle?"
"Oh, these are only promises. Very likely they don't mean anything."
"YOUR promises do; you've never broken one yet. Now I'll read another:
"This isn't a letter, dear Marjorie Mops, It's only a promise ofPeppermint Drops!"
"Every one is nicer than the last! And now for the very last one of all!"
Marjorie cut open the fourth envelope, and read:
"Dear Mopsy Midget, this isn't a letter; It's only a promise of something much better!"
"Why, it doesn't say what!" exclaimed Midge, but even as she spoke,Jane came into the room bringing a tray.
She set it on the table at Marjorie's bedside, and Marjorie gave a scream of delight when she saw a cut-glass bowl heaped high with pink ice cream.
"Oh, Uncle Steve!" she cried, "the ice cream is the 'something better,'I know it is, and those other parcels are the other three promises! CanI open them now?"
Almost without waiting for her question to be answered, Marjorie tore off papers and strings, and found, as she fully expected, a box of chocolate creams, a box of peppermint drops, and a lovely new story book.
Then Grandma came in to their tea party and they all ate the ice cream, and Marjorie declared it was the loveliest afternoon tea she had ever attended.
Even Puff was allowed to have a small saucer of the ice cream, for she was a very dainty kitten, and her table manners were quite those of polite society.
But the next afternoon Uncle Steve was obliged to go to town, and Marjorie felt quite disconsolate at the loss of the jolly afternoon hour.
But kind-hearted Grandma planned a pleasure for her, and told her she would invite both Stella Martin and Molly to come to tea with Marjorie from four till five.
Marjorie had not seen Stella since the day they came up together on the train, and the little girls were glad to meet again. Stella and Molly were about as different as two children could be, for while Molly was headstrong, energetic, and mischievous, Stella was timid, quiet, and demure.
Both Marjorie and Molly were very quick in their actions, but Stella was naturally slow and deliberate. When they played games, Stella took as long to make her move as Molly and Midge together. This made them a little impatient, but Stella only opened her big blue eyes in wonder and said, "I can't do things any faster." So they soon tired of playing games, and showed Stella their paper-dolls' houses. Here they were the surprised ones, for Stella was an adept at paper dolls and knew how to draw and cut out lovely dolls, and told Marjorie that if she had a paintbox she could paint them.
"I wish you would come over some other day, Stella, and do it," said Midge; "for I know Uncle Steve will get me a paint-box if I ask him to, and a lot of brushes, and then we can all paint. Oh, we'll have lots of fun, won't we?"
"Yes, thank you," said Stella, sedately.
Marjorie giggled outright. "It seems so funny," she said, by way of explanation, "to have you say 'yes, thank you' to us children; I only say it to grown people; don't you, Molly?"
"I don't say it at all," confessed Molly; "I mean to, but I 'most always forget. It's awful hard for me to remember manners. But it seems to come natural to Stella."
Stella looked at her, but said nothing. She was a very quiet child, and somehow she exasperated Marjorie. Perhaps she would not have done so had they all been out of doors, playing together, but she sat on a chair by Marjorie's bedside with her hands folded in her lap, and her whole attitude so prim that Marjorie couldn't help thinking to herself that she'd like to stick a pin in her. Of course she wouldn't have done it, really, but Marjorie had a riotous vein of mischief in her, and had little use for excessive quietness of demeanor, except when the company of grown-ups demanded it.
But Stella seemed not at all conscious that her conduct was different from the others, and she smiled mildly at their rollicking fun, and agreed quietly to their eager enthusiasms.
At last Jane came in with the tea-tray, and the sight of the crackers and milk, the strawberries and little cakes, created a pleasant diversion.
Stella sat still in her chair, while Marjorie braced herself up on her pillows, and Molly, who was sitting on the bed, bounced up and down with glee.
Marjorie was getting much better now, so that she could sit upright and preside over the feast. She served the strawberries for her guests, and poured milk for them from the glass pitcher.
Molly and Marjorie enjoyed the good things, as they always enjoyed everything, but Stella seemed indifferent even to the delights of strawberries and cream.
She sat holding a plate in one hand, and a glass of milk in the other, and showed about as much animation as a marble statue. Even her glance was roving out of the window, and somehow the whole effect of the child was too much for Marjorie's spirit of mischief.
Suddenly, and in a loud voice, she said to Stella, "BOO!"
This, in itself, was not frightful, but coming so unexpectedly it startled Stella, and she involuntarily jumped, and her glass and plate fell to the floor with a crash; and strawberries, cakes, and milk fell in a scattered and somewhat unpleasant disarray.
Marjorie was horrified at what she had done, but Stella's face, as she viewed the catastrophe, was so comical that Marjorie went off into peals of laughter. Molly joined in this, and the two girls laughed until the bed shook.
Frightened and nervous at the whole affair, Stella began to cry. And curiously enough, Stella's method of weeping was as noisy as her usual manner was quiet. She cried with such loud, heart-rending sobs that the other girls were frightened into quietness again, until they caught sight of Stella's open mouth and tightly-closed but streaming eyes, when hilarity overtook them again.
Into this distracting scene, came Grandma. She stood looking in amazement at the three children and the debris on the floor.
At first Mrs. Sherwood naturally thought it an accident due to Stella's carelessness, but Marjorie instantly confessed.
"It's my fault, Grandma," she said; "I scared Stella, and she couldn't help dropping her things."
"You are a naughty girl, Mischief," said Grandma, as she tried to comfort the weeping Stella. "I thought you would at least be polite to your little guests, or I shouldn't have given you this tea party."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Marjorie, contritely; "please forgive me,Stella, but honestly I didn't think it would scare you so. What wouldYOU do, Molly, if I said 'boo' to you?"
"I'd say 'boo yourself'!" returned Molly, promptly.
"I know you would," said Marjorie, "but you see Stella's different, and I ought to have remembered the difference. Don't cry, Stella; truly I'm sorry! Don't cry, and I'll give you my—my paper-doll's house."
This was generous on Marjorie's part, for just then her paper-doll's house was her dearest treasure.
But Stella rose to the occasion.
"I w-wont t-take it," she said, still sobbing, though trying hard to control herself; "it wasn't your fault, Marjorie; I oughtn't to have been so silly as to be scared b-because you said b-boo!"
By this time Jane had removed all evidences of the accident, and except for a few stains on Stella's frock, everything was in order.
But Stella, though she had quite forgiven Marjorie, was upset by the whole affair, and wanted to go home.
So Grandma declared she would take the child home herself and apologize to Mrs. Martin for Marjorie's rudeness.
"It was rude, Marjorie," she said, as she went away; "and I think Molly must go home now, and leave you to do a little thinking about your conduct to your other guest."
So Marjorie was left alone to think, and half an hour later Grandma returned.
"That was a naughty trick, Marjorie, and I think you ought to be punished for it."
"But, Grandma," argued Miss Mischief, "I wasn't disobedient; you never told me not to say boo to anybody."
"But I told you, dear, that you must use your common-sense; and you must have known that to startle Stella by a sudden scream at her was enough to make her drop whatever she was holding."
"Grandma, I 'spect I was mischievous; but truly, she did look so stiff and pudgy, I just HAD to make her jump."
"I know what you mean, Midge; and you have a natural love of mischief, but you must try to overcome it. I want you to grow up polite and kind, and remember those two words mean almost exactly the same thing. You knew it wasn't kind to make Stella jump, even if it hadn't caused her to upset things."
"No, I know it wasn't, Grandma, and I'm sorry now. But I'll tell you what: whenever Stella comes over here again, I'll try to be SPECIALLY kind to her, to make up for saying boo!"
Great was the rejoicing of the whole household when at last Marjorie was able to come downstairs once more.
Uncle Steve assisted her down. He didn't carry her, for he said she was far too much of a heavyweight for any such performance as that, but he supported her on one side, and with a banister rail on the other she managed beautifully.
And, anyway, her ankle was just about as well as ever. The doctor had not allowed the active child to come downstairs until there was little if any danger that an imprudence on her part might injure her again.
It was Saturday afternoon, and though she could not be allowed to walk about the place until the following week, yet Uncle Steve took her for a long, lovely drive behind Ned and Dick, and then brought her back to another jolly little surprise.
This was found in a certain sheltered corner of one of the long verandas. It was so built that it was almost like a cosy, little square room; and climbing vines formed a pleasant screen from the bright sunlight. To it Uncle Steve had brought a set of wicker furniture: dear little chairs and a table and a settee, all painted green. Then there was a green-and-white hammock swung at just the right height, and containing two or three fat, jolly-looking, green pillows, in the midst of which Puff had chosen to curl herself up for a nap.
There was a little bamboo bookcase, with a few books and papers, and a large box covered with Japanese matting, which had a hinged lid, and was lovely to keep things in. There was a rug on the floor, and Japanese lanterns hung from the ceiling, all in tones of green and white and silver.
Marjorie unceremoniously dislodged Puff from her comfortable position, and flung herself into the hammock instead.
"Uncle Steve!" she exclaimed, grabbing that gentleman tightly round the neck as he leaned over her to adjust her pillows, "you are the best man in the whole world, and I think you ought to be President! If you do any more of these lovely things for me I shall just—just SUFFOCATE with joy. What makes you so good to me, anyhow?"
"Oh, because you're such a little saint, and never do anything naughty or mischievous!"
"That's a splendid reason," cried Marjorie, quite appreciating the joke, "and, truly, Uncle Steve,—don't you tell,—it's a great secret: but I AM going to try to be more dignified and solemn."
This seemed to strike Uncle Steve as being very funny, for he sat down on the little wicker settee and laughed heartily.
"Well, you may as well begin now, then; and put on your most dignified and pompous manner, as you lie there in that hammock, for I'm going to read to you until tea-time."
"Goody, goody!" cried Marjorie, bobbing up her curly head, and moving about excitedly. "Please, Uncle, read from that new book you brought me last night. I'll get it!"
"That's a nice, dignified manner, that is! Your Serene Highness will please calm yourself, and stay just where you are.Ishall select the book to read from, andIshall do the reading. All you have to do is to lie still and listen."
So Marjorie obeyed, and, of course, Uncle Steve picked out the very book she wanted, and read to her delightfully for an hour or more.
Marjorie's porch, as it came to be called, proved to be a favorite resort all summer long for the family and for any guests who came to the house. Marjorie herself almost lived in it for the first few days after she came downstairs, but at last the doctor pronounced her ankle entirely well, and said she might "start out to find some fresh mischief."
So the next morning, directly after breakfast, she announced her intention of going down to see the boathouse.
"Just think," she exclaimed, "I have never seen it yet, and King told me to go down there the very first thing."
"I suppose you'll come back half-drowned," said Grandma, "but as you seem unable to learn anything, except by mistakes, go ahead. But, Marjorie, do try not to do some absurd thing, and then say that I haven't forbidden it! I don't forbid you to go in the boat, if Carter goes with you, but I do forbid you to go alone. Will you remember that?"
"Yes, Grandma, truly I will," said Marjorie, with such a seraphic smile that her grandmother kissed her at once.
"Then run along and have a good time; and don't jump off the dock or anything foolish."
"I won't," cried Marjorie, gayly; and then she went dancing down the path to the garden. Carter was in the greenhouse potting some plants.
"Carter," said Marjorie, putting her head in at the door, "are you very busy?"
"Busy, indeed! I have enough work here with these pesky plants to keep me steady at it till summer after next. Busy, is it? I'm so busy that the bees and the ants is idle beside me. Busy? Well, I AM busy!"
But as the good-natured old man watched Marjorie's face, and saw the look of disappointment settling upon it, he said: "But what matters that? If so be, Miss Midget, I can do anything for you, you've only to command."
"Well, Carter, I thought this morning I'd like to go down to see the boathouse; and I thought, perhaps,—maybe, if you weren't busy, you might take me for a little row in the boat. Just a little row, you know—not very far."
It would have taken a harder heart than Carter's to withstand the pleading tones and the expectant little face; and the gardener set down his flower-pots, and laid down his trowel at once.
"Did your grandmother say you could go, Miss Midget?"
"She said I could go if you went with me."
"Then it's with ye I go, and we'll start at once."
Marjorie danced along by the side of the old man as he walked more slowly down the garden path, when suddenly a new idea came into her head.
"Oh, Carter," she cried, "have my seeds come up yet? And what are the flowers? Let's go and look at them."
"Come up yet, is it? No, indeed, they've scarcely settled themselves down in the earth yet."
"I wish they would come up, I want to see what they'll be. Let's go and look at the place where we planted them, Carter."
So they turned aside to the flowerbed where the precious seeds had been planted, but not even Marjorie's sharp eyes could detect the tiniest green sprout. With an impatient little sigh she turned away, and as they continued down toward the boathouse, Marjorie heard somebody calling, and Molly Moss came flying up to her, all out of breath.
"We were so afraid we wouldn't catch you," she exclaimed, "for yourGrandma said you had gone out in the boat."
"We haven't yet," answered Marjorie, "but we're just going. Oh, Carter, can we take Molly, too?"
"And Stella," added Molly. "She's coming along behind."
Sure enough, Stella was just appearing round the corner of the house, and walking as sedately as if on her way to church.
"Hurry up, Stella," called Marjorie. "Can we all go, Carter?"
"Yes, if yees'll set still in the boat and if the other little lady gets here before afternoon. She's the nice, quiet child, but you two are a pair of rascally babies, and I don't know whether it's safe to go on the water with ye. I'm thinkin' I'll take little Miss Stella, and leave ye two behind."
"Idon't think you will, Carter," said Marjorie, not at all alarmed by the old man's threat. "Ithink you'll take all three of us, and we'll sit as still as mice, won't we, Molly?"
"Yes," said Molly; "can we take off our shoes and stockings and hang our feet over the sides of the boat?"
"Oh, yes," cried Marjorie, "that will be lots of fun!"
"Indeed you'll do nothing of the sort," and Carter's honest old face showed that he felt great anxiety concerning his madcap charges. "Ye must promise to sit still, and not move hand or foot, or I'll go back to my work and leave yees on shore."
This awful suggestion brought about promises of strictly good behavior, and as Stella had arrived, the party proceeded to the boathouse.
Stella was mildly pleased at the prospect of a row, and walked demurely by Carter's side, while the other two ran on ahead and reached the boathouse first.
As the door was locked, and they could not open it, Marjorie, who was all impatience to see the boat, proposed that they climb in the window. Molly needed no second invitation, and easily slipped through the little square window, and Marjorie, with a trifle more difficulty, wriggled her own plump little body through after.
As the window was not on the side of the boathouse toward which Carter was approaching, he did not see the performance, and so when he and Stella reach the boathouse a few moments later, they could see nothing at all of the other two girls.
"Merciful powers!" he exclaimed. "Whatever has become of them two witches?"
"Where can they be?" cried Stella, clasping her hands, and opening her eyes wide in alarm.
Old Carter was genuinely frightened. "Miss Marjorie!" he called, loudly. "Miss Molly! Where be ye?"
Meanwhile, the two girls inside the boathouse had carefully scrambled down into the boat and sat quietly on the stern seat. There was a strong breeze blowing, and as the boat swayed up and down on the rippling water, its keel grating against the post to which it was tied, and the doors and windows being tightly shut, they did not hear Carter's voice. They really had no intention of frightening the old man, and supposed he would open the door in a moment.
But Carter's mind was so filled with the thought that the children had fallen into the water that it didn't occur to him to open the boathouse. He went to the edge of the pier, which was a narrow affair, consisting only of two wooden planks and a single hand rail, and gazed anxiously down into the water.
This gave Stella a firm conviction that the girls were drowned, and without another word she began to cry in her own noisy and tumultuous fashion. Poor Carter, already at his wits' end, had small patience with any additional worry.
"Keep still, Miss Stella," he commanded; "it's enough to have two children on me hands drowned without another one raising a hullabaloo. And it's a queer thing, too, if them wicked little rats is drownded, why they don't come up to the surface! My stars! Whatever will the Missus say? But, havin' disappeared so mortal quick, there's no place they can be but under the water. I'll get a boat-hook, and perhaps I can save 'em yet."
Trembling with excitement and bewildered with anxiety, so that he scarcely knew what he did, the old man fitted the key in the lock. He flung open the boathouse door and faced the two children, who sat quietly and with smiling faces in the boat.
"Well, if ye don't beat all! Good land, Miss Marjorie, whatever did ye give me such a scare for? Sure I thought ye was drownded, and I was jest goin' to fish ye up with a boat-hook! My, but you two are terrors! And how did ye get in now? Through the keyhole, I suppose."
"Why, no, Carter," exclaimed Marjorie, who was really surprised at the old man's evident excitement; "we were in a hurry, and the door was locked, so we just stepped in through the window."
"Stepped in through the window, is it? And if the window had been locked ye'd have jest stepped in through the chimley! And if the chimley had been locked, ye'd have stepped into the water, and ducked under, and come up through the floor! When ye're in a hurry, ye stop for nothin', Miss Midget."
The old man's relief at finding the children safe was so great that he was really talking a string of nonsense to hide his feelings.
But Stella, though she realized the girls were all right, could not control her own emotions so easily, and was still crying vociferously.
"For goodness' sake!" exclaimed Molly, "what IS the matter with Stella?Doesn't she want to go boating?"
"Why—yes," sobbed Stella, "b-but I thought you two were drowned."
"Well, we're not!" cried Marjorie, gayly. "So cheer up, Stella, and come along."
Leaving the two girls, as they were already seated, in the stern of the boat, Carter carefully tucked Stella into the bow seat, and then took his own place on the middle thwart. This arrangement enabled him to keep his eye on the two mischievous madcaps, and he had no fear that Stella would cut up any tricks behind his back.
He could not reprove the mischief-makers, for they had done nothing really wrong, but he looked at them grimly as he rowed out into the stream.
"Oh," exclaimed Marjorie, "isn't this just too lovely for anything! Please, Carter, mayn't we just put our hands in the water if we keep our feet in the boat?"
"No," growled Carter; "you'll be wantin' to put your heads in next. Now do set still, like the nice young lady behind me."
Anxious to be good, Marjorie gave a little sigh and folded her hands in her lap, while Molly did likewise.
Carter's eyes twinkled as he looked at the two little martyrs, and his heart relented.
"Ye may just dangle your fingers in the water, if ye want to," he said, "but ye must be careful not to wobble the boat."
The children promised, and then gave themselves up to the delight of holding their hands in the water and feeling the soft ripples run through their fingers.
The row down the river was perfect. The balmy June day, with its clear air and blue sky, the swift, steady motion of the boat impelled by Carter's long, strong strokes, and the soothing sensation of the rushing water subdued even the high spirits of Midge and Molly into a sort of gentle, tranquil happiness.
With a few deft strokes Carter brought the boat to land on a long, smooth, shelving beach. A crunch of the keel on the pebbles, and then the boat was half its length on shore. Stella, in the bow, grasped the sides of the boat tightly with both hands, as if the shore were more dangerous than the water. Carter stepped out, and drew the boat well up on land, and assisted the girls out.
Stella stepped out gingerly, as if afraid of soiling her dainty boots; but Midge and Molly, with a hop, skip, and jump, bounded out on the beach and danced round in glee.
"I do believe," cried Marjorie, "that this is Blossom Banks! For there are three banks, one after another, just covered with wild flowers. And as true as I live there's a scarlet tanager on that bush! Don't startle him, Stella."
Molly laughed at the idea of Stella startling anything, and softly the girls crept nearer to the beautiful red bird, but in a moment he spread his black-tipped wings and flew away.
"It is Blossom Banks, Miss Midge," said Carter, who now came up to the girls, and who was carrying a mysterious-looking basket. He had secured the boat, and seemed about to climb the banks.
"What's in the basket, Carter?" cried Midge. "Is it a picnic? Is it a truly picnic?"
"Well, just a wee bit of a picnic, Miss Midget. Your Grandma said that maybe some cookies and apples wouldn't go begging among yees. But ye must climb the banks first, so up ye go!"
Gayly the girls scrambled up the bank, and though Stella was not as impetuous as the others, she was not far behind. At every step new beauties dawned, and Marjorie, who was a nature-lover, drew a long breath of delight as she reached the top of the Blossom Banks.
They trotted on, sometimes following Carter's long strides and sometimes dancing ahead; now falling back to chatter with Stella and now racing each other to the next hillock.
At last they reached the dearest little picnic place, with soft green grass for a carpet, and gnarled roots of great trees for rustic seats.
"For a little picnic," said Midge, as she sat with an apple in one hand and a cookie in the other, contentedly munching them both alternately, "this is the bestest ever. And isn't this a splendiferous place for a big picnic!"
"Perhaps your grandma will let you have one this summer," said Stella. "She had one for Kingdon last year and we all came to it. It was lovely fun."
"Indeed it was," cried Molly; "there were swings on the trees, and we played tag, and we had bushels of sandwiches."
"I'm going to ask Grandma as soon as ever I get home," declared Midge, "and I 'most know she'll let me have one. But I don't know many children around here to ask."
"I'll make up a list for you," volunteered Molly. "Come on, girls, let's play tag."
The cookies and apples being all gone and Carter having consented in response to their coaxing to stay half an hour longer, they had a glorious game of tag.
Stella, though so sedate when walking, could run like a deer, and easily caught the others; for Marjorie was too plump to run fast, and Molly, though light on her feet, was forever tumbling down.
At last, tired and warm from their racing, they sat down again in the little mossy dell and played jackstones until Carter declared they must go home.
"All right," said Midge; "but, Carter, row us a little farther down stream, won't you, before you turn around?"
"I will, Miss Midge, if ye'll sit still and not be everlastin' makin' me heart jump into me throat thinkin' ye'll turn the boat upside down."
"All right," cried Midge, and she jumped into the boat with a spring and a bounce that made the other end tip up and splash the water all over her.
"There ye go now," grumbled Carter; "my, but it's the rambunctious little piece ye are! Now, Miss Molly, for the land's sake, do step in with your feet and not with your head! You two'll be the death of me yet!"
Carter's bark was worse than his bite, for, although he scolded, he helped the children in carefully and gently seated Stella in her place. Then he stepped in, and with a mighty shove of the oar pushed the boat off the beach, and they were afloat again.
The exhilaration of the occasion had roused Midge and Molly to a high state of frolicsomeness, and it did seem impossible for them to keep still. They dabbled their hands in the water and surreptitiously splashed each other, causing much and tumultuous giggling. This was innocent fun in itself, but Carter well knew that a sudden unintentional bounce on the part of either might send the other one into the water. Regardless of their entreaties he turned around and headed the boat for home.
"Ye're too many for me, Miss Midge," he exclaimed; "if I land you safe this trip ye can get somebody else to row ye the next time. I'm having nervous prostration with your tricks and your didoes. NOW, will ye be good?"
This last exasperated question was caused by the fact that a sudden bounce of Molly's caused the boat to lurch and Carter's swift-moving oar sent a drenching wave all over Midge.
"Pooh, water doesn't hurt!" cried the victim. "I like it. Do it again,Molly!"
"Don't you do it, Miss Molly!" roared Carter, bending to his oars and pulling fast in an effort to get home before these unmanageable children had passed all bounds.
"Girls," piped Stella, plaintively from her end of the boat, "if you don't stop carrying on, I shall cry."
This threat had more effect than Carter's reprimands, and, though the two madcaps giggled softly, they did sit pretty still for the remainder of the trip.
Once more on the dock, Marjorie shook herself like a big dog, and declared she wasn't very wet, after all. "And I'm very much obliged to you, Carter," she said, smiling at the old man; "you were awful good to take us for such a lovely boat-ride, and I'm sorry we carried on so, but truly, Carter, it was such a lovely boat that I just couldn't help it! And you do row splendid!"
The compliment was sincere, and by no means made with the intention of softening Carter's heart, but it had that effect, and he beamed on Midget as he replied:
"Ah, that's all right, me little lady. Ye just naturally can't help bouncin' about like a rubber ball. Ye have to work off yer animal spirits somehow, I s'pose. But if so be that ye could sit a bit quieter, I might be injuced to take ye agin some other day. But I'd rather yer grandma'd be along."
"Oho!" laughed Marjorie. "It would be funny to have Grandma in a boat! She'd sit stiller than Stella, and I don't believe she'd like it, either."
With Stella in the middle, the three girls intertwined their arms and skipped back to the house. Marjorie and Molly had found that the only way to make Stella keep up with them was to urge her along in that fashion.
"Good-by," said Marjorie, as the three parted at the gate; "be sure to come over to-morrow morning; and, Stella, if you'll bring your paintbox, it will be lovely for you to paint those paper dolls."
The three girls had become almost inseparable companions, and though Midge and Molly were more congenial spirits, Stella acted as a balance wheel to keep them from going too far. She really had a good influence over them, though exerted quite unconsciously; and Midge and Molly inspired Stella with a little more self-confidence and helped her to conquer her timidity.
"Good-by," returned Stella, "and be sure to have a letter in the post office by four o'clock, when James goes for the milk."
The post office in the old maple tree had become quite an institution, and the girls put letters there for each other nearly every day, and sent for them by any one who might happen to be going that way.
Quiet little Stella was especially fond of getting letters and would have liked to receive them three times a day.
The elder members of the three families often sent letters or gifts to the children, and it was not at all unusual to find picture postcards or little boxes of candy, which unmistakably came from the generous hand of Uncle Steve.
One delightful afternoon Marjorie sat in her cosy little porch with a table full of delightful paraphernalia and a heart full of expectation.
She was waiting for Uncle Steve, who was going to devote that afternoon to helping her arrange her Memory Book. Marjorie had collected a quantity of souvenirs for the purpose, and Uncle Steve had bought for her an enormous scrapbook. When she had exclaimed at its great size, he had advised her to wait until it had begun to fill up before she criticised it; and when she looked at her pile of treasures already accumulated, she wondered herself how they would all get in the book.
At last Uncle Steve came, and sitting down opposite Marjorie at her little table, announced himself as ready to begin operations.
"We'll plan it out a little first, Mopsy, and then fasten the things in afterward."
Marjorie was quite content to sit and look on, at least until she found out how such things were done.
"You see," said her uncle, "we'll take a page for each occasion—more or less. For instance, as this book is to represent just this summer it ought to begin with your trip up here. Have you anything that reminds you of that day?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, looking over her heap of treasures, "here's a little kind of a badge that father bought for me at the station as we were going to the train."
"Just the thing; now, you see, as this is on a pin itself we'll just stick it in this first page. Anything else?"
"Well, here's a pretty picture I cut out of a magazine on the train coming up; oh, and here are two postcards that I bought of a boy who brought them through the train."
"Fine! Now, you see, we'll paste all these on this page and anything more if you have it, and then every time you look at this page you can just seem to see that whole trip, can't you?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, who was becoming absorbedly interested in this new game; "and here's the time-table, Uncle: but that isn't very pretty and it's so big. Oh, and here's the card, the bill of fare, you know, that we had in the dining-car. See, it has a picture on it."
"Why, Midget, it isn't considered exactly good form to carry the MENU away with you; but it's really no crime, and since you have it, we'll put it in. As to the time-table, we'll just cut out this part that includes the stations at the beginning and end of your trip. See?"
"Oh, yes, indeed I do! And what a beautiful page!" Marjorie breathlessly watched as Uncle Steve arranged the souvenirs harmoniously on the big page and pasted them neatly in their places. Then, taking from his pocket a box of colored pencils, he printed at the top of the page, in ornate letters, the date and the occasion. Uncle Steve was an adept at lettering, and the caption was an additional ornament to the already attractive page.
Thus they went on through the book. Sometimes a page was devoted to a special occasion, and again many scattered mementoes were grouped together. It seemed as if every pleasure Marjorie had had since she came, had produced something attractive for her book.
A fancy lace paper represented the big box of bonbons that her father had sent her when she had her sprained ankle. Many photographs there were, for Marjorie had learned to use her camera pretty well, and Uncle Steve sometimes took snap-shots of the children with his own larger camera. There were several little pictures that Stella had painted for her, an old tintype that Grandma had given her, a feather from the tail of Marjorie's pet rooster, and many such trifles, each of which brought up a host of memories of pleasant or comical situations.
The sprained-ankle episode filled up several pages. For there were the letters that Marjorie had received from the animals, and other notes and pictures that had been sent to her, and many mementoes of those long days she had spent in bed. The beautiful book Uncle Steve had brought her at that time was suggested by its title, cut from the paper wrapper which had been on the book when it came. Indeed, it seemed that there was no end to the ingenious ways of remembering things that Marjorie wanted to remember. A tiny, bright bird feather would recall the walk she took with Grandma one afternoon; a pressed wild flower was an eloquent reminder of Blossom Banks; and a large strawberry hull, neatly pasted into place, Marjorie insisted upon to remind her of the day when she said "Boo" to Stella.
Several pages were devoted to souvenirs from home, and Rosy Posy's illegible scrawls were side by side with neatly-written postcards from her parents.
All of these things Uncle Steve arranged with the utmost care and taste, and Marjorie soon learned how to do it for herself. Some things, such as letters or thin cards, must be pasted in; heavier cards or postcards were best arranged by cutting slits for the corners and tucking them in; while more bulky objects, such as pebbles, a tiny china doll or a wee little Teddy Bear, must be very carefully tied to the page by narrow ribbons put through slits from the back.
Marjorie was so impetuous and hasty in her work that it was difficult for her to learn to do it patiently and carefully. Her first efforts tore the pages and were far from being well done. But, as she saw the contrast between her own untidy work and Uncle Steve's neat and careful effects, she tried very hard to improve, and as the book went on her pages grew every day better and more careful.
At the top of each page Uncle Steve would write the date or the place in dainty, graceful letters; and often he would write a name or a little joke under the separate souvenirs, until, as time went on, the book became one of Marjorie's most valued and valuable possessions.
Marjorie had been at Grandma Sherwood's about weeks, and as a general thing she had been a pretty good little girl. She had tried to obey her mother's orders, and though it was not easy to keep her troublesome curls always just as they ought to be and her ribbon always in place, yet she had accomplished this fairly well, and Grandma said that she really deserved credit for it.
But to obey Grandma implicitly was harder still. Not that Marjorie ever meant to disobey or ever did it wilfully, but she was very apt to forget and, too, it seemed to be natural for her to get into mischief. And as it was always some new sort of mischief, which no one could have thought of forbidding, and as she was always so sorry for it afterward, there was more or less repentance and forgiveness going on all the time.
But, on the whole, she was improving, and Uncle Steve sometimes said that he believed she would live to grow up without tumbling off of something and breaking her neck, after all.
Grandma Sherwood found it far easier to forgive Marjorie's unintentional mischief than her forgetting of explicit commands.
One command in particular had caused trouble all summer. There were two front doors to Grandma's house and two halls. One of these halls opened into the great drawing-room on one side and a smaller reception room on the other, where callers were received. The stairs in this hall were of polished wood and were kept in a state of immaculate, mirror-like shininess by Jane, who took great pride in this especial piece of work.
The other front door opened into a hall less pretentious. This hall was between the drawingroom and the family library, and the stairs here were covered with thick, soft carpet.
It was Grandma's wish that the members of the family should usually use the carpeted stairs, for she too took great pride in the glossy, shining surface of the others. Uncle Steve preferred the carpeted stairs, anyway, as they led to the upper hall which opened into his own room, and Grandma invariably used them.
As a means of distinction, the wooden stairs were habitually called the Front Stairs; and, though they were equally front, the carpeted flight was always spoken of as the Other Stairs.
From the first, Marjorie had been explicitly forbidden to go up and down the Front Stairs; and from the first Marjorie had found this rule most difficult to remember.
Rushing from her play into the house, often with muddy or dusty shoes, she would fly into the hall, clatter up the Front Stairs, and, perhaps, down again and out, without a thought of her wrongdoing. This would leave footprints, and often scratches and heel-marks on the beautiful steps, which meant extra work for Jane; and even then the scratches were not always effaceable.
Many a serious talk had Grandma and Marjorie had on the subject; many times had Marjorie faithfully promised to obey this particular command; and, alas! many times had the child thoughtlessly broken her promise.
At last, Grandma said: "I know, my dear, you do not MEAN to forget, but you DO forget. Now this forgetting must stop. If you run up those Front Stairs again, Marjorie, I'm going to punish you."
"Do, Grandma," said Marjorie, cheerfully; "perhaps that will make me stop it. For honest and true I just resolve I won't do it, and then before I know it I'm just like Jack and the Beanstalk, 'a-hitchet, a-hatchet, a-up I go!' and, though I don't mean to, there I am!"
Grandma felt like smiling at Marjorie's naive confession, but she said very seriously: "That's the trouble, dearie, you DO forget and you must be made to remember. I hope it won't be necessary, but if it is, you'll have to be punished."
"What will the punishment be, Grandma?" asked Marjorie, with great interest. She was hanging around Mrs. Sherwood's neck and patting her face as she talked. There was great affection between these two, and though Marjorie was surprised at the new firmness her grandmother was showing, she felt no resentment, but considerable curiosity.
"Never mind; perhaps you'll never deserve punishment and then you will never know what it would have been. Indeed, I'm not sure myself, but if you don't keep off those Front Stairs we'll both of us find out in short order."
Grandma was smiling, but Marjorie knew from her determined tone that she was very much in earnest.
For several days after that Marjorie kept carefully away from the Front Stairs, except when she was wearing her dainty house slippers. It was an understood exception that, when dressed for dinner or on company occasions and her feet shod with light, thin-soled shoes, Marjorie might walk properly up or down the Front Stairs. The restriction only applied to her heavy-soled play shoes or muddied boots.
So all went well, and the question of punishment being unnecessary, it was almost forgotten.
One morning, Marjorie was getting ready to go rowing with Carter. Molly was to go too, and as the girls had learned to sit moderately still in the boat, the good-natured gardener frequently took them on short excursions.
It was a perfect summer day, and Marjorie sang a gay little tune as she made herself ready for her outing. She tied up her dark curls with a pink ribbon, and as a hat was deemed unnecessary by her elders, she was glad not to be bothered with one. She wore a fresh, pink gingham dress and thick, heavy-soled shoes, lest the boat should be damp. She took with her a small trowel, for she was going to dig some ferns to bring home; and into her pocket she stuffed a little muslin bag, which she always carried, in case she found anything in the way of pebbles or shells to bring home for her Memory Book. She danced down the Other Stairs, kissed Grandma good-by, and picking up her basket for the ferns, ran merrily off.
Molly was waiting for her, and together they trotted down the sandy path to the boathouse. It had rained the day before and the path was a bit muddy, but with heavy shoes the children did not need rubbers.
"Isn't it warm?" said Molly. "I 'most wish I'd worn a hat, it's so sunny."
"I hate a hat," said Marjorie, "but I'll tell you what, Molly, if we had my red parasol we could hold it over our heads."
"Just the thing, Mopsy; do skip back and get it. I'll hold your basket, and Carter isn't here yet."
Marjorie ran back as fast as she could, pattering along the muddy path and thinking only of the red parasol, bounded in at the front door and up the Front Stairs!
Grandma was in the upper hall, and her heart sank as she saw the child, thoughtlessly unconscious of wrongdoing, clatter up the stairs, her heavy boots splashing mud and wet on every polished step.
Her heart sank, not so much because of the mud on the steps as because of this new proof of Marjorie's thoughtlessness.
"My dear little girl!" she said, as Marjorie reached the top step, and in a flash Marjorie realized what she had done.
Crestfallen and horrified, she threw herself into her grandmother's arms.
"I'm sorry, Midget dear, but I cannot break my word. You know what I told you."
"Yes, Grandma, andIam so sorry, but please, oh, Grandmadear,—can't you just postpone the punishment till to-morrow? 'CauseMolly and I are going to Blossom Banks to dig ferns, and it's such aBEAUTIFUL day for ferns."
Grandma Sherwood hesitated. It almost broke her heart to deprive the child of her holiday, and yet it was for Marjorie's own good that an attempt must be made to cure her of her carelessness.
"No, Marjorie; I cannot postpone the punishment until to-morrow. If you wanted to go rowing to-day, you should have waited to run up these stairs until to-morrow. You didn't postpone your naughtiness, so I cannot postpone its punishment."
Marjorie looked dumfounded. She had not intended to be naughty, but also she had never supposed her gentle grandma could be so severe. She looked utterly disconsolate, and said in despairing tones: "But, Grandma, won't you let me go rowing this morning and give me the punishment this afternoon? I must go; Molly and Carter are down by the boathouse waiting for me! Please, Grandma!"
So difficult was it for Mrs. Sherwood to resist the child's pleading tones that her own voice was more stern than she intended to make it, lest she reveal her true feeling.
"No, Marjorie; you have been very naughty now, and so you must be punished now. Listen to me. I shall send Jane to tell Carter to go back to his work and to tell Molly to go home. I'm sorry to spoil your pleasure, but remember you have really spoiled it yourself."
Marjorie did not cry, she was not that sort of a child. But she had a broken-down, wilted air, the very despondency of which almost made her grandmother relent. Had it been a more important occasion she might have done so, but the children could go on the river any day, and though it was a very real disappointment to Marjorie to stay at home, yet discipline required it.
"Now, Marjorie," went on Mrs. Sherwood, after Jane had been despatched on her errand, "take off those muddy shoes and set them on the top step of the stairs."
Rather wondering at this command, Marjorie sat down on the top step, unlaced her shoes, and did with them as she had been bidden.
"Now, this is your punishment, my child; you came up these stairs when you had been told not to do so: now you may spend the rest of the day on the stairs. You are not to leave them until six o'clock to-night. With the muddy steps and your muddy shoes in front of your eyes all day long, you may, perhaps, learn to remember better in future."
Marjorie could scarcely believe her ears. To stay on the stairs all day long seemed a funny punishment; and except for missing the row on the river, it did not seem a very hard one.
"May I have a book, Grandma," she asked, still a little bewildered by the outlook.
Grandma considered. "Yes," she said at last; "you may go to your room, put on your worsted bedroom slippers, and then you may bring back with you any books or toys you care for."
"How many?" asked Marjorie, whose spirits were rising, for her punishment seemed to promise a novel experience.
"As many as you can carry at once," replied Grandma, turning aside to hide a smile.
In a few minutes Marjorie returned. She had turned up the short, full skirt of her pink gingham frock to form a sort of bag, and into it she had tumbled, helter-skelter, several books, some paper and pens, her paper-doll's house, her paintbox, her kitten, a few odd toys, her Memory Book, and her clock. Staggering under the bulging load, but in a more cheerful frame of mind, she reached the stairs again.
"I brought my clock," she observed, "because I shall want to know as the hours so by; but I'll be careful not to scratch the stairs with it, Grandma."
"Your carefulness comes too late, Marjorie. I shall have to send for a man from town to repolish the stairs, anyway, for the nails in the heels of your heavy boots have entirely ruined them."