"I see you have a tine with you," said Mr. Mack, looking at the tine I carried. "Have you something to sell, perhaps? And where may these pretty little ladies be from?"
"I-pi sell-pell butter-putter," said I.
"We are from the Land of Fantasy," said Massa, without attempting P-speech again.
"Why! They don't make butter in the Land of Fantasy, do they?" asked Mrs. Mack.
Just then the servant came in with an immense tray, and on it was something very different from Mrs. Berg's camphorated cookies, I assure you! I thought with grief of my mask mouth no bigger than a savings-bank slit.
"And now what about unmasking?" said Mr. Mack. "That is, if these ladies from the Land of Fantasy are willing to liven up an evening for a couple of old people."
Were willing! We took our masks off in a jiffy. But, would you believe it? Mr. Mack said he knew me the very minute we came in!
Mrs. Mack took a glass of Christmas mead and recited:
"Oh! I remember the happy ways
Of my gay and innocent childhood days.
And I love to feel that my old heart swells,
With the same pure joy that in childhood dwells."
"Mamma composed that herself," said Mr. Mack, gazing admiringly at his wife.