They were not intentionally rude, these gay-spirited young people, but a girl who couldn't play Fox and Geese seemed to them a justifiable butt for ridicule. Determined to succeed, Delight ran from one to another, arriving just too late every time. The unfamiliar exercise wearied her, her cheeks glowed pink with mortification at her repeated failures, and her breath came quickly, but she was plucky and kept up her brave efforts.
Kingdon saw this, and admired the spirit she showed.
"Look here, Flossy Flouncy," he said, not unkindly, "you've been Fox long enough; now I'll be Fox, and you sit down on the sofa and get rested."
Delight looked at him gratefully, and without a word she went and sat on the sofa and Miss Adams came and sat by her and put her arm round the trembling child. Soon after this, the game was stopped because supper was announced.
Delight sat between Marjorie and King, and though she ate but little she enjoyed seeing the delicious country viands that were served.
Little chicken pies, a whole one to each person; flaky biscuits, and golden butter; home-made ice cream and many sorts of home-made cakes and jellies and preserves. The hungry children disposed of an enormous quantity of these pleasant things, but Miss Adams was not surprised at their appetites, for this was an annual experience with her.
After supper, they sang songs. Miss Adams sat at her old-fashioned square piano, and played some well-known songs in which they all joined.
"I heard a song on a phonograph, the other day," said Harry Frost; "it was about a bonnie lassie. Do you know that, Miss Adams?"
"No, dear boy, I don't. I'm sorry. Can't you sing it without the piano?"
"No, I don't know it. But I'd like to hear it again."