Mrs. Weston folded the garment which she had been mending, and saying, kindly, “That was a long story for a little girl to try to tell,” she went out to the kitchen to make preparation for tea, leaving Prue still looking at the pictures in the fairy book. Randy stole out to the kitchen.
“Oh, mother,” she said, looking up wistfully, “I know you think it funny that I can like fairy stories almost as well as Prue does; but, truly, Prue does not tell them straight. They’re not true, of course, but they do sound pretty when you read them straight through instead of ‘mixed up’ as she gets them.”
“I know, of course,” said her mother, “that Prue has a funny way of telling anything. If you enjoy the stories, I’m sure I don’t care, only don’t ask me to read them. I want to read something that’s somewhat probable,” and Randy was obliged to be satisfied with that.
Mrs. Weston’s mind was utterly void of imagination, and to read to her of magic locks, of sleep which, lasting a hundred years, left the sleeper youthful and beautiful, of wild wishes granted, of people turned to stone, and back to life again, simply tried her patience and amused her not at all.
CHAPTER V—HELEN DAYTON’S CALL
The sun shone in at the kitchen window and made a golden panel on the floor.
“Looks like another hot day,” said Mrs. Weston, and she paused a moment and looked out at the meadow, where the little brook sparkled in the sun.
“Mother, are we very poor?” said Randy, irrelevantly.
Mrs. Weston wheeled around abruptly in her surprise, and promptly dropped the dishcloth which she held in her hand. “There,” said she, “look at that dishcloth; somebody’s comin’ sure as preachin’. I never knew it to fail.”
“Oh, I do hope somebody will, if it’s Miss Dayton, if that’s her name,” added Randy. “But you didn’t answer what I asked you,” said the girl. “Are we, mother?”