Part 56 (1/2)

Eddy removed the fast-diminis.h.i.+ng square of cake from his mouth and regarded his sister with an expression of the most open ingenuousness. ”Now, Charlotte, I'll tell you something,” he said.

”What, dear?”

”You might just as well stay, and I'll tell you why. Papa and Amy and Anna won't be home until after seven.”

”Until after seven?”

”No. They are going to Addison.”

”To Addison?”

Addison was a large town some fifteen miles from Banbridge.

”Yes; and they are going to get dinner there.”

”Eddy, are you sure?”

”Yes, of course I am sure,” replied Eddy, with the wide-open eyes of virtue upon his sister's face. ”Amy told me to tell you.”

”Now, Eddy.”

Eddy took another bite of his cake. ”I think you are pretty mean to speak that way. I never spoke to you so,” he said. ”When you say a thing is so, I never say 'Now, Charlotte!'” Eddy, having imitated his sister's doubtful tone exactly, took another bite of cake.

”Well, if Amy really said so,” Charlotte returned, and still with a faint accent of incredulity. It was very seldom that the Carrolls took the drive to Addison. However, it was an exceedingly pleasant day, and it did seem possible.

”Well, she did,” Eddy declared, stoutly; and there was in his declaration a slight trace of truth, for Mrs. Carroll had mentioned, on starting, that it was such a lovely day, that if they had got an earlier start they might have driven to Addison; and Anna had replied that it was too late now, for they would not get home in time for dinner if they went there. The rest Eddy had manufactured to serve his own small ends--which a stay at the Andersons' to tea, for which he had, remembering his dinner there, the pleasantest antic.i.p.ations.

”You had better stay, Charlotte,” Eddy urged, furthermore, ”for you do look awful pale, and as if you ought to have something nouris.h.i.+ng to eat, and you know we won't get much home. The mutton all went this noon, and you know, unless papa got some in Addison, we wouldn't be likely to get any here. I heard Anna talking about the butcher only this morning. Papa hasn't been able to pay him for a very long time, you know, Charlotte.”

Then Charlotte raised herself hastily. ”We must go home,” she said, with a fierce emphasis; but the effort was too much. She sank back, and Mrs. Anderson sent her son for the camphor-bottle.

”Now,” said she to Anderson, ”you had better take him out and show him the dog. I'll fix it up.” She nodded a.s.suringly towards the little pale face against the rose-patterned chintz.

”Come along, son,” said Anderson to the boy, and led him out in the garden. ”You must not talk quite so much, young man,” he said to him, when they were on their way to the dog-kennel, which was backed up against the terrace at the rear of the house, and before which stood chained fast a large dog with a bad reputation. ”You had better not touch him,” charged Anderson, as they approached. Then he repeated, ”No, you must not talk quite so much.”

”Why not?” demanded Eddy. ”He don't look very cross.”

”Because,” said the man, ”there are certain things in every family which it is better for a member of the family not to repeat outside his home.”

”What did I say?” asked Eddy, wonderingly. ”He is wagging his tail.

He shakes all over. He wouldn't do that unless his tail was wagging.

I can't see his tail, but it must be wagging. What did I say?”

”When it comes to the family's household affairs--” Anderson said.

”Oh, you mean what I said about the butcher, huh? Oh, that don't do any harm. Everybody in Banbridge knows about those things. I don't see what difference that makes. Folks have to have things, don't they? I don't believe that dog would bite me. He is wagging just as hard as he can. Don't they?”

”Yes, of course,” agreed Anderson, ”but--”