"That went well!" said Polly, when they had reached their closing tableau, with John Smith on his knees, kissing the French kid shoe of Pocahontas. "I do hope it will go all right next week, for mamma says we may each invite four people, and I don't want to fail."
"We're going to have it here, after all, are we?" asked Alan.
"Yes. Florence wanted it, but her mother wasn't willing, so we're going to use the library for a stage, and put the people in the parlor. It will hold ever so many, that way. Tuesday night we're going to rehearse it there."
"I wish we could try our parts there, now," said Alan.
"Why not do it?" asked Polly. "We can, just as well as not, for there isn't a soul in the house but ourselves. Come on." And she led the way to the head of the stairs.
"Sure there isn't anybody there?" asked. Alan.
"Nobody, I am certain."
"All right, here goes, then." And followed by Polly, Alan raced down the stairs, singing at the top of his lungs,—
"'Oh, my wife and my dear children!
Oh, the deaths they both did die!
One got lost, and one got drownded,
And one got choked on pumpkin pie!'
Hi-yi-whoop-ee!" he added, with a threatening war-whoop, as he opened the parlor door and dashed in.