"Come away from the window," said Midge; turning back to the brightly lighted room. "Let's think of something nice to do."
"I can think better here," said Kitty, dropping heavily on the couch, her head, by good luck; striking squarely in the middle of the pillow.
"Kit," said her brother,—"Kitty,—you,—you go to bed,—if you—if you can't—"
As King spoke, he came across a big armchair, and quite unintentionally he let himself fall into it. It felt very pleasant, somehow,—so much so, indeed, that he neglected to finish his admonition to Kitty, and she wouldn't have heard it if he had!
Marjorie, by a strange coincidence, also met a most friendly Morris chair, which held out inviting arms. It seemed a pity to refuse such cordiality, so Marjorie sat down in it a minute to do that thinking they had spoken about. What was it they were to think of? Something about the moon? No, that wasn't it. Her new furs? Not quite; school,—Gladys,—cookies?
These thoughts drifted confusedly about Marjorie's brain for a few moments, and then, with a little tired sigh, her curly head dropped back on the Morris chair's velvet cushion, and her eyes closed.
How those three children did sleep! The sound, hard sleep that only healthy, romping children know. When Mrs. Maynard softly opened the door a little later, she almost laughed aloud at the picturesque trio.
But stifling her mirth lest she awake them, she called her husband to her side. After a few whispered words, they went away, and returned with down quilts and steamer rugs, which they gently tucked about the vanquished heroes, and then lowering the lights left them asleep at their posts.
For an hour the children slept soundly, and then, at ten minutes before twelve the nursery door was softly opened again.
This time, Mr. and Mrs. Maynard, accompanied by Grandma Sherwood and
Uncle Steve, came in, apparently with the intention of staying. Mr.
Maynard snapped on the lights, and the grownups smiled as they gazed on
the faces of the sleeping children.