Part 8 (2/2)
”Don't forget to come back, if you do,” called Edna, over her shoulder.
”I'll row off,” said Cricket, conveniently deaf to this remark, ”and rencounter,” aiming at reconnoitre, ”and if you are in any trouble, give the call, and wave a handkerchief on a stick. Perhaps I'll row back to the burning vessel, and see if I can pick up any one who is floating around.”
The call was a vigorous whoop, that had been long ago adopted. It consisted in drawing a deep breath, and then crying, ”Wah-whoo-wah!
wah-whoo-wah! _Crick_-et! _Crick_-et! wah-whoo-wah!” putting in the name of the person wanted.
[Ill.u.s.tration: LANDING ON BEAR ISLAND]
Eunice and Edna watched Cricket off, and then sauntered slowly across the island, to a dear little spot, their favourite nook. It was a smooth bit of sand, under the shadow of a pine, and well sheltered by rugged overhanging rocks. They had an uninterrupted view of the bay outward, with the long tongue of land that partly enclosed it, and the lighthouse standing on the rocky point. Marbury lay behind them, out of sight.
They settled themselves comfortably, in the cus.h.i.+ons, with the rocks at their backs. Edna took her work, a linen cover for her bureau, which she was embroidering exquisitely. Her deft little fingers accomplished really beautiful work, and she loved to do it.
She had done outline work when her tiny fingers were hardly firm enough to grasp the needle, and her kindergarten sewing, when she was a small child, had been the delight of her teachers, and the envy of her little companions. Eunice was fond of her needle, too, though she was not equal to such deft workmans.h.i.+p as Edna was.
”You do such _lovely_ things,” she said, now, taking up the strip of linen, on which graceful maidenhair fern was growing rapidly. ”I don't see where you get time to do so much.”
”I do suppose it makes a difference that, when I'm at home, I haven't any one to play with, as you have. Probably you and Cricket play games together, while I am doing my fancy work. What do you do in the winter evenings at home?”
”Different things,” answered Eunice, lifting up the soft, pale-green silks, admiringly. ”Sometimes I study. Not often, though, for papa doesn't like us to study in the evening much. You see, our school is out at one, and lunch is at half-past. Then, till half-past four, we can do anything we like out-of-doors. We skate, if there is any skating in the park, we coast down hill on Sawyer Street, or walk, or papa takes us to drive.
”In spring and fall days, we often walk out to Manton Lake for wild flowers or chestnuts. But we must always be in the house at half-past four in winter, and at five when the days get longer. Then we always study in the upper hall till quarter after six, and then we get ready for dinner.”
”How nice it is always to have somebody to do things with. I am sure I could study better if I had somebody to talk things over with. Then if you do your studying in the afternoon, what do you do in the evening?”
”After dinner we are all in the back parlour for awhile, papa, and Donald, and Marjorie, and everybody, and we have fun then, I tell you, if there isn't any company. We play games, or papa plays with us. Then if I haven't gotten through my lessons in the afternoon, papa lets me study for half an hour. But we _never_ can study after half-past eight, no matter what.”
”But suppose you didn't study hard in the afternoon, and _can't_ get through by half-past eight?” asked Edna.
”Oh, but we _must_ study hard,” said well-trained Eunice, surprised.
”Papa hates dawdling.”
”Does your mother help you with your lessons?”
”Not much. Sometimes she explains something we don't understand, but papa says we should not need help. Well, then, generally we read for a little while, or mamma reads to us, and if she does, I embroider something. Sometimes we sew on Sat.u.r.day mornings. What do you do?”
”Nothing, much,” sighed Edna, dolefully. ”It's so stupid to be an only daughter. The boys are older, you see, and they have each other, and they do study very hard in the winter. You see, I've no one to go out with, after luncheon, unless I go with some of the girls. Of course mamma often takes me with her, but lots of times she can't. And if she's out when I come in, the house is so stupid. And evenings I just sit and do fancy work, all by myself, if mamma is invited out to dinner, or anything, and she is invited out such a lot. I wish you were my sister, Eunice.”
”Poor Edna! I wish you were _my_ sister, and could live with me all the time. I don't think I _could_ leave Cricket and the rest to come and live with you. Wouldn't it be nice if one of your brothers was only a sister? I don't think boys mind nearly as much about being the only one.
And sisters are such a comfort. Let's read now. I peeked ahead, and Jessica is an only child, too.”
In the interest of their story the time slipped by. They munched some cookies, but decided to wait till Cricket's return before eating a regular luncheon. They always provided themselves with luncheons on the slightest pretext.
”Isn't it time for Cricket to turn up?” said Eunice, at last, suddenly interrupting herself. ”She's been gone perfect ages. I really believe her cannibals have eaten her up.”
”If they have,” replied Edna, decidedly, ”they would soon repent it.
n.o.body could digest her, for she would fly around so. I believe even the _pieces_ of her would jump up and down in their stomachs.”
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