“Oh, no! We ain’t that!” echoed all the little Prouts sadly, and then they were silent for a long time. The little girls sighed, and their lips trembled. They admired Rose Thornton more than anybody they had ever seen. Many and many a time when Rose did not know it, the little Prout girls were peeping at her from behind some big tree in the woods or rock on the shore; wondering at her long, golden curls and at her pretty, pink skin, which never seemed to grow brown and rough like theirs, and at the simple little dresses, which seemed wonderfully beautiful to them. Rose’s blue cambric frock with the red leather belt and red hair-ribbon was their favorite.
The Prout boys thought that Kenneth was the most wonderful person, with his bicycle and his Indian suit and bow and arrows. But they never dreamed of speaking to Rose or to Kenneth. They were ashamed even to be seen by them, and always ran away and hid, especially after that terrible morning of the early alarm. Oh, no! Of course these children could not be their brothers and sisters!
It was at the end of that very same day, the longest, dreariest day of early winter, when the little Prouts had agreed that the Father had forgotten the island, that the magazines began to come. Tim Parks drove four miles from the village to bring them, he was so curious to know who could have been sending things to “The Masters Prout” and “The Misses Prout.” For no one had ever before sent any mail to the Prout family. These were postmarked from the city, too!
“Something for the Masters Prout, and something for the Misses Prout!” he called out as he pushed open the door. “I thought I’d jest bring ’em over for ye.” And he handed the packages to Tommy and Mary.
What an excitement there was then! They tore open the wrappers, and behold! A boy’s magazine and a girl’s magazine, full of pictures and stories. The children danced around, shouting and laughing. Somebody had sent them papers from the city! They were not quite forgotten!
“Who sent ’em? That is what I want to know,” said Tim Parks.
But there was no word or scrap of writing to tell, and Tim could not find out what he longed to know.
“Wall, I guess they jest came from the magazine shop,” said Tim at last, as he went out of the door. But the children looked at one another. They knew better.
“You said He had forgotten, and He sent these to show He hasn’t,” whispered Mary to Tom. And the children looked at the papers with a feeling of awe and pride.
What continued joy there was for the little Prouts in those generous pages! Mary and Tom read every word aloud to the others, and to the whole family; for the father and mother were as much interested as the children. There was a continued story, and that was the most exciting of all. For it was one of the best stories that Aunt Claire had ever written. But, alas! it stopped short at the most thrilling part.