But it was written on such wide paper that the end would stick out, so she had to return to the dining-room with a quarter of the roll in full view.
“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Alice, “where are you going? and what is that sticking out of your pocket?”
“I am going to see my new children, and this is the but-end of a pop-gun.”
“Oh, mamma, take me! I want to go.”
“But, darling, I thought Lizzie Lyman was coming to help you make a new Spanish waist for Ginevra.”
“So she is; I forgot;” and Alice pulled out Miss Ginevra, who was a lovely little porcelain doll, and who lived in the top of her own trunk, and kissed her fondly.
So Aunt Fanny and her tall husband, after a dozen kisses or so from Sarah and Alice, trotted off.
If you will promise never to tell, I will mention that the new children lived in Twenty-third street, in the very middle of a long row of brown-stone houses. It was not a very long walk, and soon Aunt Fanny had pulled the bell, which was one of those funny spring bells which give one loud “tching,” as if they had jumped out of their skins with a jerk and a scream; and jumped in again with another, the next time anybody pulled them. As the door was opened, she saw a bright little face peeping from the dining-room, and the very next instant she heard the joyous exclamation, “If it isn’t Aunt Fanny!”—and then came a rushing, and a tumbling, and a racing, and a laughing! and all the six children fell lovingly upon her, and knocked down—not Aunt Fanny, not a bit of it, or of her, but two hats, three umbrellas, a great-coat, a whisk-broom, and a paper parcel marked “From A. T. Stewart,”—all of which had been peacefully hanging or resting upon the hat-stand; and when papa and mamma came out to see who was creating such a riot, there was Aunt Fanny with the whisk-broom perched like a flower on top of her bonnet, Peter and Fred rushing after the hats which had rolled off in different corners; all the rest of the articles scattered on the floor; Bob and the three little girls jumping straight up and down, kissing Aunt Fanny, and begging pardon for upsetting so many things over her; while the waiter and Aunt Fanny’s husband were standing near, laughing as hard as ever they could at the fun.
They got into the parlor at last, and sat down—the children with their bright eyes fastened upon their welcome guest, who, trying to look grave, asked, the very first thing, if the children had had any dinner that day.