So Sharley had the table to set, and the biscuit to bake, and the tea to make, and the pears to pick over; she must run upstairs to bring her mother a handkerchief; she must hurry for her father’s clothes-brush when he came in tired, and not so good-humored as he might be, from his store; she must stop to rebuild the baby’s block-house, that Moppet had kicked over, and snap Moppet’s dirty, dimpled fingers for kicking it over, and endure the shriek that Moppet set up therefor.  She must suggest to Methuselah that he could find, perhaps, a more suitable book-mark for Robinson Crusoe than his piece of bread and molasses, and intimate doubts as to the propriety of Nate’s standing on the table-cloth and sitting on the toast-rack.  And then Moppet was at that baby again, dropping very cold pennies down his neck.  They must be made presentable for supper, too, Moppet and Nate and Methuselah,—­Methuselah, Nate, and Moppet; brushed and washed and dusted and coaxed and scolded and borne with.  There was no end to it.  Would there ever be any end to it?  Sharley sometimes asked of her weary thoughts.  Sharley’s life, like the lives of most girls at her age, was one great unanswered question.  It grew tiresome occasionally, as monologues are apt to do.

“I’m going to holler to-night,” announced Moppet at supper, pausing in the midst of his berry-cake, by way of diversion, to lift the cat up by her tail.  “I’m going to holler awful, and make you sit up and tell me about that little boy that ate the giant, and Cinderella,—­how she lived in the stove-pipe,—­and that man that builded his house out of a bungle of straws:  and—­well, there’s some more, but I don’t remember ’em just now, you know.”

“O Moppet!”

“I am,” glared Moppet over his mug.  “You made me put on a clean collar.  You see if I don’t holler an’ holler an’ holler an’ keep-a-hollerin’!”

Sharley’s heart sank; but she patiently cleared away her dishes, mixed her mother’s ipecac, read her father his paper, went upstairs with the children, treated Moppet with respect as to his buttons and boot-lacing, and tremblingly bided her time.

“Well,” condescended that young gentleman, before his prayers were over, “I b’lieve—­give us our debts—­I’ll keep that hollerin’—­forever ’n ever—­Namen—­till to-morrow night.  I ain’t a—­bit—­sleepy, but—­” And nobody heard anything more from Moppet.

The coast was clear now, and happy Sharley, with bright cheeks, took her little fall hat that she was trimming, and sat down on the front doorsteps; sat there to wait and watch, and hope and dream and flutter, and sat in vain.  Twilight crept up the path, up to her feet, folded her in; the warm color of her plaided ribbons faded away under her eyes, and dropped from her listless fingers; with them had faded her bit of a hope for that night; Hal always came before dark.

“Who cares?” said Sharley, with a toss of her soft, brown head.  Somebody did care nevertheless.  Somebody winked hard as she went upstairs.