Miss Larkin hastily offered a suggestion. She well knew that when Midget grew restless and impatient, mischief was pretty likely to ensue.
“Let’s go and weed the flower boxes,” she said.
“They’re spick and span now,” said Marjorie. “We’ve weeded them every day this week, and if we pull up anything more it’ll have to be the flowers themselves. And we’ve watered them till they’re most drownded.”
“Drowned, my child,” corrected King, with a schoolmaster air.
“I don’t mean drowned—I mean drowned dead,” declared Marjorie, triumphantly.
“Pooh, if you’re drowned, you’re sure to be dead,” returned her brother.
“You’ve never been drowned, so how do you know?”
“Neither have you, so how do you know?”
“There, there, children, don’t quarrel,” said Miss Larkin, pleadingly.
“Oh, pshaw, that isn’t quarreling,” said Marjorie; “that’s only cheerful conversation; isn’t it, King?”