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“Oh Mar,” asked Moses as they passed a brilliantly colored and illuminated poster, “Is them the actor people?”,
“Are you sure, my boy? I’ll go with you—”,
“Billy! You’re freezing!” She sprang up and turned on the light.,
“Before vacation? Why, they’ll be just the things to do in vacation.”
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In the house, meanwhile, affairs were proceeding quite as happily as those out of doors. The hostess fluctuated between the parlor and kitchen. She was preparing a repast not only for the workers present, but also for the men-folk who would presently arrive to take them to their respective homes. Excused from quilting, she nevertheless managed to spend considerable time with her guests. Mrs. Mifsud was a lady who aspired to literary attainments. She had read “Beulah,” “Vashti,” “Lucile,” “St. Elmo” and many other books of like calibre. She felt that her talents were practically wasted, living in what she termed a desert, yet she strove, when occasion offered, by elegance of deportment and conversation to enhance her gifts. She often spoke tenderly of the late Mr. Mifsud who, in spite of the fact that his face had been adorned with bristling side-whiskers of an undeniable red, had shown in other ways some signs of intelligence and feeling. He had been carried off by the shingles. According to Mrs. Mifsud’s account, her deeply-lamented spouse had considered the tall attenuated form of his wife “willowy,” her long thin black hair “a crown of glory,” her worn narrow countenance with its sharp nose and coal-black eyes, “seraphic.”,
“Have more toast Glory,” said Moses suddenly wakened. Unwrapping his leg from the rung of the chair, he reached across the table.,
“Doubtless it is incorporated in the language of some foreign people,” conceded Mrs. Mifsud, languidly.,
Pat Bliggins approached the receptacle and deposited a prodigiously overgrown, forked, dusty carrot, miraculously endowed with powers of emotion, for several wrinkles beneath its green feathery top betrayed extreme agitation.
“You don’t want to see your mother now, do you, boy? No more do you feel like jabbering with Bess at our table. Come over to the hotel, and we’ll lunch together.”
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“Hurry up, Moses,” she called, as soon as her joy had subsided, “git those pipes finished an’ go arfter yor chores.”
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“Pretty; and Charley will be Douglas, and—”
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“Yes, you shall be our dear little girl.” Mrs. Bennett took the forlorn child in her motherly arms and kissed her. “You’re tired and hungry, too, aren’t you?”
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>She clapped him into her own warm bed, and incredibly soon things were sizzling over the alcohol lamp.
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