“It’s the daily bread for this day;” said papa softly, as he was shaking hands with her mother.
“And cake and cream and fruit off of the twelve trees. And the seventy palms with their shade and beauty.”
“You have brought some sunshine,—you seldom go empty-handed, Jennie,” said papa.
Dick turned and looked at her just then. She had such a clear, sweet, tender expression, the nameless something better than beauty. A slender, graceful figure, white and peachy-pink tints with brown hair and eyes. Her dress was white and a marvel of workmanship, with its bias tucking and straight tucking and bands of embroidery that she had done herself. Fan once quoted her, but mamma reminded her that there were seven of us, and that tucks must be divided by that number.
“And I am going to have a splendid time. Mother, here is your book. Are you quite comfortable? If you don’t mind, I will take a ramble with the girls. You and Mrs. Conklin can have a nice talk.”
“No dear, go on.”
Mrs. Conklin had taken out her knitting. She was from one of the farms over the river, a healthy, happy, rosy-cheeked grandmother, her fingers flying fondly in and out of the tiny red clouded stocking.
“Where will you go first?” asked Dick of the group of girls.
“To the Cascade,” replied Mr. Ogden.
“You are not girls,” said Fan saucily.