“And have you discovered just what your vocation is?” her aunt asked.
Blue Bonnet shook her head. “Unless, not having one.”
“It is something to have found out what it is not,” Grandmother said. “I have known people who had not attained even to that point.”
Blue Bonnet pinched one of Solomon’s long ears; they were behaving beautifully—Grandmother and Aunt Lucinda.
And then Grandmother said, slowly, “All the same, Blue Bonnet—though I agree with you that there would hardly be time, under present circumstances, for you to get the shawl done, I do not at all approve of your taking things up and then dropping them as suddenly.”
Blue Bonnet looked into the fire; she had been afraid Grandmother would take it like that. Then she looked up, with eyes full of sudden mischief. “Grandmother, dear, I give you my word of honor, that the next time I start in to make anyone a crocheted shawl I’ll finish it!”
And even Aunt Lucinda was obliged to smile.
Never days went by more quickly than those short December ones. And never, in Blue Bonnet’s experience, had days been half so full of business.
Two or three times a week came messages from Uncle Cliff, generally accompanied by packages for the box, or rather boxes. For Mr. Ashe had been promptly told of that second Christmas box, also destined for Texas, and had as promptly expressed his unqualified approval.
The two stood side by side on the table in the clubroom, and in one a big bundle of bright purple and crimson wools held no inconspicuous place.