“It isn’t mischief,” agreed Midget; “that’s sure. But I’m not so sure we haven’t done wrong. When I asked Mrs. Simpson, it seemed the only thing to do; and it seemed—it seemed——”
“Grand and noble,” suggested King.
“Yes, it did! Sort of splendid, and ‘love thy neighbor as thyself,’ you know. But now——”
“Now,” said Kitty, “we’ve got to face the music. We’ve got to go in the house, looking like ragpickers ourselves, and taking with us a crowd of people who look—well, nearly as bad! and then, we’ve got to face Miss Larkin and her grand company!”
“We can’t!” exclaimed Marjorie, stopping short, quite appalled at the picture Kitty drew so graphically.
“We’ve got to!” declared King. “Come on, Mops, I can’t carry this baby much farther. Rosy Posy, you’re a bunch of sweetness, but you’re an awful heavy one.”
“Is I?” said the little one, apologetically, as she nestled close to the big brother whom she adored, and patted his grimy face with her equally grimy little hand.
“Let me carry the little girl,” said the big man, who, just behind, was looking after Mrs. Simpson.
But Rosamond was shy, and utterly refused to go to the arms of a stranger.
“Never mind,” said King, wearily. “We’re almost home now. I can manage her.”