Part 13 (1/2)

It was a miserable Susan whom Grandmother joined a few moments later.

Without a word, Mrs. Whiting washed the hot face and hands, and helped Susan make ready for bed.

Downstairs she put Gentilla into the hammock, she herself lay down on the couch, and the afternoon quiet was unbroken as they all refreshed themselves with a long nap.

When Susan woke, and saw Grandmother standing by her bedside, she stretched out her arms and laid her penitent head upon Grandmother's soft shoulder.

”I don't know what did it,” said Susan at last, when she had whispered for several moments in Grandmother's ear. ”I meant to be good. I was trying so hard.” And Susan pensively put out her tongue and caught a tear rolling slowly down her cheek.

”Well, Susan, take my advice,” said Grandmother sensibly, ”and don't try to train Gentilla any more. It is all most of us can do to take care of ourselves, and we think Gentilla is a nice little girl just as she is now, don't we?”

Susan nodded soberly. Much nicer than Susan Whiting, she thought, as she remembered slapping and pus.h.i.+ng and knocking Gentilla down.

But she brightened when Grandmother added:

”Hurry now and dress yourself. We are all invited over to Mrs. Vane's for tea, Grandfather and all. And you are going to wear your new dress with the little pink flowers. I put the last st.i.tch in it for you not five minutes ago.”

CHAPTER IX-HICKORY d.i.c.kORY DOCK

It was a stormy autumn afternoon, and Phil sat in his rocking-chair before the red coal fire watching the clock upon the mantelpiece. He hoped it would strike soon and tell him what time it was, for he was expecting company, and he felt that he had already waited quite long enough.

He looked round the nursery and saw that everything was in its place, spick and span and ready for visitors, too. The big dapple gray rocking-horse stood in his corner, his fore feet impatiently lifted and an eager gleam in his brown gla.s.s eye. No doubt he was anxious to do his part by giving the visitor as many rides as she wished.

The tin kitchen, with its gay blue oven, was polished until it sparkled and glittered like precious stones. The kitchen was a favorite toy with Phil. He never tired of making strange little messes of pounded crackers and water, that smelled of the tins they were cooked in, and tasted no one but Phil could say how, for no one but he would eat them.

His big electric train, running on real tracks, a present from Great-Uncle Fred, was nicely set up in the middle of the floor, and looked as if it could take you to Jericho and return in one afternoon.

Little black Pompey in a red-and-white striped minstrel suit, high hat on head, looked anxiously from the cab of the engine, for, as engineer, was he not responsible for the safety of a whole family of paper dolls who occupied an entire pa.s.senger car and who seemed not at all concerned at the delay in starting?

The nodding donkey, the dancing bear, the flannel rabbit with only one ear, stood stiffly on parade. The box of tin soldiers and sailors lay invitingly open.

Yes, everything was ready, even to the big sailboat that leaned against the wall, canvas spread to catch the first salt breeze. And best of all, there stood the low nursery table covered with a spotless white cloth, a sight which promised such a pleasant ending to what was sure to be a pleasant afternoon that Phil treated himself to a violent rocking as a way of working off his emotion.

For Phil had been ill in bed, and this was his first taste of fun in two whole weeks. He had looked forward mightily to this very moment, and his mother's promise that he should have a party as soon as he was well had helped, more than anything else, to make the big spoonfuls of black medicine go down without a struggle.

Phil's cheeks were white and his face was thin, and he wore for warmth his manly little blue-and-white checked bathrobe, since only last night his cough had been croupy again. Not that Phil called it his bathrobe.

In admiring imitation of his father's lounging costume he called it his ”smoking-jacket,” and he had even had the daring to slip a match or two into the deep side pocket, in which he fervently hoped no one might pry.

If Phil's mother had even suspected such a thing, he and the matches would have parted company speedily, he well knew. He meant to slip them safely back as soon as the party was over, and no one would be the wiser or harmed in the least by what he had done, he thought. He smiled to himself as he fingered the forbidden objects that nestled so innocently in his pocket and gave him such a jaunty grown-up feeling.

And, in Phil's secret heart, there was another reason why he was happy this afternoon. Gentilla had gone away.

It was not that Phil didn't like Gentilla, for he did. He had played happily with her and Susan through the long summer days that the little girl had spent in Featherbed Lane. He had enjoyed, he thought, the long stay Gentilla had made with the Whitings when her gypsy relatives had disappeared in the night and had never been heard of from that time to this.

But at last Gentilla's visit had come to an end. Mr. Drew knew of a Home for little children who needed some one to love and care for them. And so, one bright October day, the good minister took the little gypsy girl to her new home where she would lead an ordered, comfortable life quite different from the rough-and-tumble days she had known in gypsy van or camp.

At parting, Phil had presented Gentilla with his treasured Noah's ark because she loved it so. He would willingly have given her his express wagon, in which he had treated her to many a ride, if his mother hadn't explained that it would not go into Gentilla's tiny trunk which her kind friends were filling for her with a neat little outfit. He stood upon the station platform, loyally waving his hat until the train was quite out of sight.

And it was not until then that he learned how pleasant it was to have an undivided Susan for a playmate once again, a Susan who was always glad to see him, who never whispered secrets and wouldn't tell, who never ran away from him, and who, in short, was to be the chosen guest of honor that very afternoon.

”It must be most supper-time,” grumbled Phil. ”I wish the clock would strike, or Susan would come, or something would happen.”