“Now you must feed him on beef tea, and I’ll feed him on iron,” he said to Mrs. Whitcomb. “We will run a race to see which can get the most fat on his bones. Goodness knows there’s need enough of it. He seems to have put into practice some one’s suggestion, to take off his flesh and sit in his bones a space. Cool, for this hot weather.”
“I suppose we can venture to be a little jolly now,” Stuart said, that afternoon, as we were all on the porch. “We have been going about this whole week like a funeral procession.”
“There might have been one—very easily,” I replied, with as much sternness as I could put in my voice.
“But when you are through the woods, what is the use of frightening yourself with the darkness and the ‘bug-a-boos’? Isn’t that what you tell children? I never really believed that he was going to die. It is only your good people—”
“Then there is not much fear of you,” said Fan.
“Thank Goodness, no. I mean to have a deal of fun out of life yet. Just wait until I can get my hands into the money. There will be larks then, I can tell you. Meanwhile, may we not dissipate harmlessly on croquet?”
“I think not,” was my answer. “Your brother is very weak and nervous; and I have sometimes found the click of the balls hard to bear myself.”
“Hang it! I wish he was in—England with Stephen. He is always putting on airs of some kind. Before I’d be such a Molly-fuss-budget I’d go off and hang myself, and leave my money to the nearest of kin.”
“O, Stuart,” I exclaimed, “you are perfectly—”
“There, don’t preach to me, you small midget! I hate girls’ preaching. It’s hard enough to have it on Sundays. Can a leopard change his spots? Yes, he can go off to another spot. So I’ll go. Adieu, little grandmother.”