“At six o’clock in summer, when there’s so much to do.”
Six o’clock! Elliott turned her gasp of astonishment into a cough.
“I sometimes choke,” said Priscilla, “when I’m awfully hungry.”
“Does Stannard eat breakfast at six?” Elliott felt she must get to the bed-rock of facts.
“Oh, yes!”
“What is he doing now?”
Priscilla wrinkled her small brow. “Father and Bruce and Henry are haying, and Tom’s hoeing carrots. I think Stan’s hoeing carrots, too. One day last week he hoed up two whole rows of beets; he thought they were weeds. Oh!” A small hand was clapped over the round red mouth. “I didn’t mean to tell you that. Mother said I mustn’t ever speak of it, ’cause he’d feel bad. Don’t you think you could forget it, quick?”
“I’ve forgotten it now.”
“That’s all right, then. After breakfast I’m going to show you my chickens and my calf. Did you know, I’ve a whole calf all to myself?—a black-and-whitey 41 one. There are some cunning pigs, too. Maybe you’d like to see them. And then I ’spect you’ll want to go out to the hay-field, or maybe make jelly.”