"Buddy, my darling, I have broken into my letter again to say that I am a pig—the piggiest kind of pig, and this letter to you is a piggy letter. I will send it because I wrote it, and because I haven't got any time to write another, better one. I only wish to add that in certain ways I am as bad as 'Mis' Steppe,' that's a good pun you see, whether you know who I'm talking about or not. I'm going to be a better sister to you, and a better daughter to Father John and Mother Darby. I've found out that one poor mother can do so much damage in the world that I don't want to be a poor—anything. Get well, and write me a letter, Buddy.—Sister Bet."
CHAPTER III
The Little Room—and Peggy
The golden robins woke first, and demanded their breakfast in weak, insistent voices. Then the blue counterpane slid to the floor and two ruffled blue dimity sleeves were flung out at right angles. The clear bell of the schoolhouse clock struck six times.
"Dear me, I must hustle," Elizabeth said.
She flew to the wash-stand and poured the creamy, gilt-edged bowl of the best room set full of well water, in which she laved and splashed. An aroma of bacon and coffee and the inimitable savour of raised biscuits helped to accelerate her progress. She sang as she dressed, but she thought of nothing at all but her breakfast.
Her grandfather, in his shirt sleeves and sand-coloured waistcoat, was already at the table when she took her place there, and unfolded her red-fringed, damask napkin from the napkin ring that was her father's, and marked with his name. It was on a standard, and supported by twin boys, wreathed and carrying trumpets. Elizabeth always tried to hide it behind some dish as she ate.