“Come, girl,” said Marguerite, dropping rose-petals, one by one, on Nan’s nose. “What are you dreaming of?”
“Oh,” said Nan, opening her eyes, “I was thinking what gay old times we’re going to have down there. I’m so glad we’re going! Marjorie, you’re such a darling, I shall dedicate my first book of poems to you.”
“Do,” said Marjorie; “but don’t write them while we’re down at Long Beach. What shall we do if you go off on a poetic flight when it’s your turn to boil the potatoes?”
“Oh, I sha’n’t boil potatoes; they’re too prosaic. Omelet soufflé is the very plainest thing I shall ever cook.”
Grandma Bond groaned.
“Margy,” she said despairingly, “I hope you packed the medicine-chest I gave you.”
“Oh, yes, grandma; and your bundle of old linen and salve for burns, and your arnica-flowers for bruises, and your sticking-plaster for cuts, and your toothache drops, and your Balsam Balm. Oh, the hospital department will give you a vote of thanks, engrossed and framed. Now go on home, Nan and Daisy; I know you’ll miss the train.”
“Yes, we must go. Good-by, grandma.” For all the girls insisted on sharing Marjorie’s grandma, and the dear old lady’s heart was big enough for them all. “Good-by, grandma; give us a parting word.”
Grandma’s eyes twinkled as she replied: “Well, I advise you to remember that too many broths spoil the cook.”
Six merry laughs greeted this speech, and Nan replied: “Indeed they do, and I won’t allow more than three kinds of soup at any one meal. Now I’m off, Marjorie; I’ll meet you at the train—and oh, Duchess, I ’most forgot to ask you. Brother Jack says, can he and Ted come down and spend a day with us?”