Babbie had been abroad, on an automobile trip through France. She looked more elegant than ever in a chic little suit from Paris, with a toque to match, and heavy gloves that she had bought in London.
“I’ve got a pair for each of you in my trunk,” she announced, “and here’s hoping I didn’t mix up the sizes.”
“Sixes for me,” cried Bob.
“Five and a-half,” shrieked Babe.
“Six and a-half,” announced Katherine, “and you ought to have brought me two pairs, because I wear mine out more than twice as fast as anybody else.”
“What kind of a summer have you had, K?” asked Babe, who never wrote letters, and therefore seldom received any.
“Same old kind,” answered Katherine cheerfully. “Mended twenty dozen stockings, got breakfast for seven hungry mouths every morning, played tennis with the boys and Polly, tutored all I could, sent out father’s bills,—oh, being the oldest of eight is no snap, I can tell you, but,” Katherine added with a chuckle, “it’s lots of fun. Boys do like you so if you’re rather decent to them.”
“I just hate being an only child,” declared Bob hotly. “What’s the use of a place in the country unless there are children to wade in the brook, and chase the chickens and ride the horses? Next summer I’m going to have fresh-air children up there all summer, and you two”—indicating the other B’s—“have got to come and help save them from early deaths.”
“All right,” said Babe easily, “only I shall wade too.”
“And you’ve got to wash them up before I can touch them,” stipulated the fastidious Babbie. “Where have you been all summer, Rachel?”