And Doctor Mendel’s fine insight told him all this. He knew that emotional, sensitive little Kitty would live over the scene as she wrote about it, and her remorse and self-censure would work cruelly upon her already overwrought nerves. So he determined to write himself, and tell the story in its true light, knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Maynard pretty thoroughly understood their own children, and would at once appreciate the situation. Then the doctor went away, and without his cheery presence, the children’s spirits lagged again.
Then it was that Miss Larkin came to the rescue.
“Now, children,” she said, and though her bright gaiety of manner always seemed a little forced and unreal, they listened politely to what she was about to say.
“Now, dear children,” she repeated, “after a dreadful scene, such as we’ve just passed through, I don’t think there’s anything so cheering and comforting as an extra good dinner.”
“Hooray!” cried King, who had expected a lecture or, at best, a talk of a consolatory nature; “I say, Larky, you’re a brick!”
He stopped, suddenly overcome with discomfiture at having all unintentionally used the nickname that he had promised never to say again.
But, to his great surprise, Miss Larkin laughed gaily. “Good for you, King!” she said; “I used to have a chum who called me ‘Larky,’ but I haven’t heard the name for years. I’d like it if you’d use it often.”
“But—but,” stammered King, “I promised Mother I wouldn’t. She said it was disrespectful.”
Miss Larkin laughed again. “So it would be if you meant it disrespectfully. But if you and I can be chums, and I ask you to use it, then I know Mother would have no objections.”
“I know it, too,” said Marjorie; “can’t we all be chums—Larky?”