“No, an auctioneer.”
“Does he say, ‘Going, going, gone,’ like Uncle Lewis does when he pretends to sell me?”
“Yes.”
“Can anybody go to a—a nauction?”
“Why, yes. How many questions a little girl can ask.”
“Well, mamma, I think if you’ll ’scuse me, I’ll go down stairs and find something else to do.”
“I’ll excuse you, certainly. Don’t get into mischief.”
But Mabel was out of the door and on her way down the steps by this time. She stopped at the parlor, peeped in, and then went over to the piano which she opened and began to drum softly upon it, but she knew her mamma did not allow this, so she went across the hall to the library. This was a favorite room, especially on a rainy day, and, when her father was not busy there, Mabel was often allowed to curl herself up in one of the big chairs with a book. To-day, however, she did not feel inclined to settle down and looked around to find something to invite her attention. A box of water-colors stood open upon the desk where her father had been working. He had been coloring some drawings to use in his class at the university.
Mabel stood gazing at the colors longingly; they did look so bright and pretty. She took up one of the brushes and wet it in the glass of water her father had been using; then she dipped it in the brightest vermillion in the box.
“I wish I had something to paint,” she said to herself. Looking through a pile of newspapers, she found nothing that would do, and her eyes next sought the books nearest her. She opened one; it was fresh and new. “Oh, I couldn’t take that,” she said. “But this old one, I don’t believe he cares much for this. It has pictures in it, but they are very queer, and so yellow, I’m sure the book isn’t of any account at all. I think it would look much better if I were to paint it up a little.” And, the action being suited to the word, the brush was soon making dabs at the colors on the box, and the figures in the engravings were given startling costumes of red, or blue, or yellow, as Mabel’s fancy dictated.