But after dinner, apparently for no reason at all, Miss Larkin’s mood changed. She spoke in stern tones. She commanded the children to study their lessons quietly, and then go straight to bed.
“What’s up?” said King to Marjorie, making no sound, but moving his lips.
“Dunno,” she replied, in the same silent way, as they opened their schoolbooks.
Half an hour later, they filed quietly upstairs, and paused only for a moment’s whispered conversation on the landing.
“Now, what do you s’pose ailed her?” asked King.
“I know,” said Kitty, confidently; “she was sort of ashamed of having played Joan of Arc with us, and it made her more strict than ever.”
“I guess that was it,” said Marjorie, with a sigh. “But the celebration’s off. I’m not going to make floats for an old crosspatch.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said King. “You know how she is. She’ll be sweet as pie on her birthday—you see if she isn’t. And, anyway, we’ll get as much fun out of the floats and things as she will.”
This was true enough, so they said good-night, and separated.
“It’s funny,” said Marjorie to Kitty, after they reached their own room; “Mother and Father are always just the same,—even—you know. But Miss Larkin is awful indulgent one minute, and strict as anything the next.”