“What is the matter?”
“Ugh! the fruit is all kerosene.”
The luckless Lamplighter looked up at the swing-lamp, and, sure enough, it was still dripping.
“I must have put in too much oil,” she said calmly, scrutinizing it with interest, “and it—it overflew.”
“I should think it did,” wailed Jessie, looking at her pretty centerpiece spotted with drops of oil.
“It won’t hurt it any,” said Marguerite. “I’ll wash it for you myself. Is there any more fruit?”
But there wasn’t, and the girls didn’t care very much anyway; and leaving the table to Rosie, they all went out on the veranda.
CHAPTER VII
THE INDIAN CALLER
THE veranda at Hilarity Hall was a most attractive place. Hammocks, rockers, and wicker settees abounded, and pillows were as sands of the sea-shore for multitude.