CHAPTER XII.
The next thing that happened to us was—though to be exact, it was two events. In the morning papa had a long, lovely letter from Stephen Duncan, enclosing a check for two hundred dollars on the boys’ account, and one for fifty to mamma, to fill up the chinks made by the sickness, he said. The Doctor’s bill he would settle when he came home. Papa read most of it aloud, and I saw mamma’s sweet, dark eyes fill with tears.
We were beginning a new week, and alone by ourselves. That always reminds me of the story papa used to tell of a traveler who passed a house where there were seven children sitting on the stoop, and seven on the fence, all crying as hard as they could cry, so he paused to ask what dreadful thing had happened.
“Oh,” said they with one voice, “our mother has gone away and left us all alone!”
It was pretty much the same with us, only we did not cry for any one gone away. It was delightful to have our house by ourselves.—Though it seemed so queer that we lounged around and amused each other making wonderful plans.
In the afternoon Mrs. Whitcomb arrived with her large basket. We all rushed out and kissed her, and almost distracted her with our avalanche of news. Fan untied her bonnet, I took her shawl and mamma turned one glove into the other after her own careful fashion.
“The wear seems to have told most upon you, Mrs. Endicott,” she said with sweet solicitude. “First of all, girls, your mother must have a holiday!”
We looked at each other blankly, then laughed.
“She shall have whatever is best;” returned Fan with much dignity.