“Come!” commanded Mrs. Curtis.
The door opened and the butler appeared in the doorway, his solemn, red face redder and more solemn than usual.
“Please, it’s that child again,” he said. “While the young ladies was out in the automobile with Mr. Tom, she went in their room, emptied out one of their trunks and shut herself inside. She said she was ‘Hope’ and the trunk was ‘Pandory’s Box,’ or some such crazy foolishness. She meant to jump out when the young ladies came back, but Norah went into the room with some clean towels, and when the little one bobs her head out of that box, just like a black witch, poor Norah is scared out of her wits and drops on the floor all of a heap. If that child doesn’t go away from here soon, Ma’am, I don’t know how we can ever bear it.”
“That will do, Richards,” answered Mrs. Curtis coldly. But Madge could see that she was dreadfully vexed at Tania’s latest naughtiness.
The little captain gave Mrs. Curtis a penitent hug. “It is all my fault, dear. I should never have brought the little witch here,” she murmured. “I’ll go and make it all right with Norah and see that Tania does no more mischief—for a while, at least.”
Mrs. Curtis looked somewhat mollified, nevertheless, she was far from pleased, and Madge’s championship of little Tania was to cause the little captain more than one unhappy hour.