Part 23 (2/2)
”And all the other interesting things in Plymouth,” went on Cricket, turning her back on him. ”And we'll go over to Bear Island for a picnic, girls.”
”Yes, if you'll promise--” began Edna.
”Goodness, yes! if you won't say anything more about it,” interrupted Cricket, hastily. ”And, oh, auntie! couldn't we have some charades? Some real, regular charades, I mean, not little ones all by ourselves.”
”I'll be in them, if you'll have something I like,” offered Archie, condescendingly.
”If we have any charades, you may be sure we won't ask you,” returned Cricket, crus.h.i.+ngly. ”I'll have Will, though. He's a very good actress, and he doesn't spoil everything, as some other people do.”
”Thank you,” said Will, making a bow, with his hand on his heart.
”I'm out of it, then,” said Archie, ”for I know I'm not a good actress.”
”Of course I meant actor. There isn't much difference, anyway. Just two letters. Anyway, we'll have a beautiful time. You'll have Edna, Eunice, and I'll have Hilda.”
”What do you suppose would happen if it should chance to be a rainy week, and I should have you all on my hands to entertain in the house, now, while grandma is laid up? Would there be any house left?” asked Auntie Jean.
”The cellar,” said Eunice. ”But I'd be sorry for you, auntie.”
”And I for myself. But I don't think it will rain, and you'll probably have a lovely time together.”
”Don't expect too much,” advised Will. ”Antic.i.p.ation is always better than reality, you know.”
”It wouldn't be, if people always had as good a time as they expected,”
remarked Cricket, thoughtfully.
There was a shout at this.
”Exactly, little wiseacre. That's the trouble,” laughed auntie. ”Write to Hilda to come on the 4.10 train Friday afternoon, and we'll all be ready to help you both have as good a time as you antic.i.p.ate.”
Cricket departed to write the following letter:
”DEAREST OLD HILDA:
”I was so glad to get your letter that I nearly jumped out of my shoes. We'll have the greatest fun that ever was, and auntie will take us to Plymouth, and I'll guess Will will sail us out beyond the Gurnet Light, and we can have a picnic on the island, perhaps. What do you think I've gone and done to-day? I expect you'll say it's just like me, and I'm sure it isn't like anybody else, and I'm awfully morterfied. I wrestled with grandmother, my grandmother Maxwell, when she didn't know I was going to, and I tipped her right over accidentally, without meaning to, and I've almost broken her leg!!! Isn't that _too dreadful_? I didn't quite break her leg, but I sprained her ankle, so she can't walk. I never knew anybody to do such terrible, morterfying things as I do. I do hope I'll get to be proper and good when I'm grown-up. It would be very nice to be born proper, and _very_ nice for my mother, but then I wouldn't have had so much fun. I want to see you so much that I can't wait, hardly.
It seems a million years till Friday. Remember you're to stay a whole week, and we'll have _loads_ of fun. Auntie says come on the 4.10 train, and we'll meet you.
”Yours very lovingest,
”JEAN MAXWELL.”
The next morning, after breakfast, when grandma was up and dressed, with her sprained foot resting on a cus.h.i.+oned chair in front of her, Cricket presented herself at the door.
”I've come to be your legger, grandma,” she announced, ”and I'll read to you, or amuse you, or play dominos or halma with you, or anything you like. Or we might play go-bang. That's very interesting.”
”Thank you, little granddaughter,” said grandmother, much amused, but touched as well. ”I'll be very glad to have a legger, but, after all, it wasn't my eyes that were sprained, so I can read very well for myself. I couldn't think of keeping you in all this beautiful day.”
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