“Serpent, child,” said Ethelwyn crushingly, beginning on cake.

“Surplus, I mean,” said Beth, getting out a piece of cake for herself.  “I’d give a good deal, sister, if you wouldn’t always count your chickens before they’re hatched!” Whereupon she climbed down and went over to sit by her mother, where she glared indignantly at her sister.  Her dear “bawheady” doll was in her arms.

This doll was so called because early in life he had lost his wig, and thereby developed a capability for being a baby, a bishop, or a boy.  There was a fascinating hole on top of his head, thus making it possible to secrete things like medicine or food until they were fished out with a buttonhook or darning needle.  He was fed on cake now, but was generally given crusts, when there were any, because Beth did not like them.

“Why did you ask that question?” asked their mother.

“We thought you looked as though we’d made you an awful lot of trouble,” said Ethelwyn, regarding the gorgeous ceiling of the car.

“Yes, you did, although I was not thinking of it just then; you ran away—­”

“Walked, mother,” corrected Beth, “to the ’lectric car, with grandmother’s gold dollar, to go down to buy a trunk specially for our dolls—­”

“It was fun, mother,” put in Ethelwyn, “only when we stood up and fussed to see who’d push the button to get off, the man slowed up so fast we both fell through a fat man’s newspaper into his lap and upon his toes.  He was angry too, for he just said ‘ugh,’ when we asked him to excuse us, please.  The trunk man gave us back four big silver nickels with the trunk; we put them inside, and you can have them, mother, to help heal your feelings.”

“Your mistake was in not asking—­”

“We thought you’d better not be ’sturbed, ’cause ever since grandpa and brother died, you’ve thought such a lot, and looked so worried—­”

“But I was more worried about you when I found you weren’t in the house or grounds; I thought you might be lost, and I was about telephoning to the police station about it, when you came, and there was just time to catch the train.”

Then Ethelwyn got down, and went over to squeeze in on the other side of her mother.  She knelt on the cushions and patted the dear face until the little smile they loved, came out again, and drove the care lines away.

“Children are such a worry, mother,” she said in a funny, prim fashion, “that I should think you’d be sorry you ever bought us.”

“But we are going to be good from now on, so good you’ll nearly die laughing,” said Beth, getting up to pat her side of the face.

Their mother laughed now in a bright fashion they loved, and squeezed them up tightly.

“No, no, chickens,” she said, “I’m never sorry I bought you; you were bargains, both of you, but I’ve had much to think of, and plan for, in the last few months, and perhaps I’ve neglected you somewhat.”