“Yes, Miss Impatience, I will.”
And that night, Marjorie fell asleep while thinking of all the lovely things she could collect to put in the book, which Uncle Steve had told her she must call her Memory Book.
The days of Marjorie’s imprisonment went by pleasantly enough. Every morning Molly would come over, and they played with their paper-doll houses. These houses continually grew in size and beauty. Each girl added a second book, which represented grounds and gardens. There were fountains, and flowerbeds and trees and shrubs, which they cut from florists’ catalogues; other pages were barns and stables, and chicken-coops, all filled with most beautiful specimens of the animals that belonged in them. There were vegetable gardens and grape arbors and greenhouses, for Uncle Steve had become so interested in this game that he brought the children wonderful additions to their collections.
It was quite as much fun to arrange the houses and grounds as it was to play with them, and each new idea was hailed with shrieks of delight.
Molly often grew so excited that she upset the paste-pot, and her scraps and cuttings flew far and wide, but good-natured Jane was always ready to clear up after the children. Jane had been with Mrs. Sherwood for many years, and Marjorie was her favorite of all the grandchildren, and she was never too tired to wait upon her. She, too, hunted up old books and papers that might contain some contributions to the paper-doll houses. But afternoons were always devoted to rest, until four or five o’clock, when Uncle Steve came to pay his daily visit.
One afternoon he came in with a fresh budget of letters.
“Letters!” exclaimed Marjorie. “Goody! I haven’t had any letters for two days. Please give them to me, Uncle, and please give me a paper-cutter.”
“Midge,” said Uncle Steve, “if you think these are letters, you’re very much mistaken. They’re not.”
“What are they, then?” asked Marjorie, greatly mystified, for they certainly looked like letters, and were sealed and stamped.
“As I’ve often told you, it’s a good plan to open them and see.”
Laughing in anticipation at what she knew must be some new joke of Uncle Steve’s, Marjorie cut the envelopes open.
The first contained, instead of a sheet of paper, a small slip, on which was written:
“If you think this a letter, you’re much mistook; It’s only a promise of a New Book!”
“Well,” said Marjorie, “that’s just as good as a letter, for if you promise me a book, I know I’ll get it. Oh, Uncle, you are such a duck! Now I’ll read the next one.”
The next one was a similar slip, and said:
“This isn’t a letter, though like one it seems; It’s only a promise of Chocolate Creams!”
“Oh!” cried Marjorie, ecstatically, “this is just too much fun for anything! Do you mean real chocolate creams, Uncle?”