“Does your mother come home to supper?”
“No. Lizzie makes our supper. Lizzie puts Tommy to bed and Susy to bed and Sairy to bed and Jackie to bed.”
“Well,” remarked Mabel, crossly, “I wish she’d come right now and do it. I ought to be a mile from here this very minute. I shouldn’t have come in. And now I don’t know what to do. It isn’t right for you to be left by yourselves and it isn’t right for me to stay. Now what does anybody do in a case like that? I must be back by six o’clock; but I’d be wicked if I went away—and it’s awfully wrong of me not to go.”
“Don’t go,” wheedled Tommy. “You is nicer than Lizzie.”
“Nicer ’an ’Izzie,” echoed Susy.
“Nicer ’an ’Izzie,” echoed Sairy.
Mabel peered anxiously down the road. The days were short and already it was growing darker. For another half hour Mabel, pressing closer and closer to the window, watched the road. By that time it was really dark. There was a lamp with oil in it on the kitchen table; Mabel discovered matches on the shelf and managed to light it.
“What do you have for supper?” asked Mabel. “I suppose I’ll have to feed you.”
“Oatmeal,” said Tommy. “It’s in the kettle on the stove. And milk—in the cupboard. And bread.”
“What do you have for breakfast?”