To be sure, the admiring audience was largely composed of the citizens of this lowly locality, but their appreciation was as deep and their voices were as strong as those of the aristocrats on the other side of the bridge.
“And as we’re going to do this,” said Kitty, when the cheers had subsided, “we’d better get about it before all those children catch their death of cold.”
It was five o’clock now, and the sun was getting low, and the March wind high.
The seven small Simpsons had on no hats or wraps, nor, for that matter, did the four small Maynards, so Kitty’s suggestion was really on the side of wisdom and prudence.
“Right you are, little Miss,” said the burly overseer, “and as you children are so kind as to take these sufferin’ folks to your own house, I’ll see to it that what few sticks of furnicher they’ve saved is taken care of.”
“Oh, thank you!” cried Marjorie; “then we can go right home. I’m so afraid our baby will catch cold. And Mrs. Simpson’s babies, too,” she added, considerately. “Come on, Rosy Pet; come with Middy.”
Rosamond put her cold little hand in Midget’s, and Kitty said, “We must all run; that’s the way to get warm. Come on.”
“Wait a minute,” said Mrs. Simpson, who had not yet really accepted her invitation; “I’m thinkin’ it ain’t right for us to go to your ma’s house, an’ her away from home. It ain’t for the likes of us to go into a grand house with carpets and pictures. And I’m thinkin’ we’d ought to go to the poorhouse, after all.”
For a moment Marjorie felt relieved. After her impulsive invitation, a sort of reaction had left her wondering how it would all turn out. And now she had a chance to retract and reconsider her offer.
But again the woebegone look on Mrs. Simpson’s tearful face, and the forlornness of the seven shivering children smote her heart, and she couldn’t help saying: