“I don’t know what Midget thought,” said King, “and I hadn’t quite settled it in my own mind; but I thought Ellen or James would help us out. There’s an extra room in the attic that Mrs. Simpson could use, and then—I thought maybe James could fix some bunks somewhere for the children.”
“Yes,” said Marjorie, “there’s a big loft over the carriage-house——”
“But that’s too cold,” objected Kitty. “I thought they could sleep in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in that tone of biting sarcasm that was even more irritating than Miss Larkin’s dumb despair.
Meantime the household servants, though they had not been summoned, were hovering round in the hall.
Ellen, at risk of endangering the fine dinner she was preparing, had come to see if she could help her beloved young people in any way. Nannie, seeing Rosy Posy’s plight, had carried her off to the nursery, and Sarah, wringing her hands in dismay, was consulting in whispers with Thomas, as to what could be done to help Miss Marjorie and Master King out of this scrape.
As for the Simpsons themselves, they, of course, had no part in the discussion. Mrs. Simpson, in a sort of apathy, sat with her head drooped, and a baby in her arms; while two others, scarcely more than babies, clutched at her dress and hid their faces if any one looked at them. The other four stood behind their mother’s chair, wriggling awkwardly, and uncertain whether to cry or to feel pleased at being guests of the great house, even though of doubtful welcome.
“No, Miss Kitty, dear,” said Ellen, coming to the doorway of the drawing-room, “ye can’t be afther usin’ my kitchen fer bedrooms. But the pore woman can have my bed fer the night, an’ I’ll shlape on the flure or annywhere, so I will.”
“An’ I will, too,” said Sarah, wiping her eyes, for her warm heart sympathized with the anxiety of the children she loved.
“An’ I’ll see to some few of ’em,” said Thomas, from the background, “though I’m sure, Miss Marjorie, they’d all catch pewmonia a-sleepin’ in the carriage-loft.”