CHAPTER I.
“‘How many? Seven in all,’ she said,
And wondering looked at me.”
Wordsworth.
“Another girl!”
“Seven of ’em!”
“What a pity!”
“The land sakes alive! Brother Endicott will have to buy calico by the piece for their gowns! He might get a little throwed off, or a spool of cotton extry. He, he! ho, ho! Well, children are a great risk! You don’t s’pose there’ll be a donation party right away—do you!”
“There is donation enough for the present, I think; and the sewing society will not be called upon.”