"Oh! Oh!" mourned Clare. She set the cage on the table.
Barbara bethought herself of the gift. Out of the sagging pocket of the gingham, she produced the tightly-made bouquet. "See!" she cried, holding out the flowers with a smile. "For you, Aunt Clare!"
But Clare brushed them aside, and fetched the child's hat. "Where's that Colter woman?" she demanded angrily.
Tottie lolled against the mantel, studying Clare and enjoying her gum.
"Huntin' pickle forks," she replied.
"Aunt Clare!" insisted Barbara, again proffering the drooping nosegay.
"Here! Put this on!"—it was the coat. Clare took one small arm and directed it into a sleeve.
"Do I have to go?" asked Barbara, plaintively.
"Now don't make a fuss!"—crossly. "Stand still!" Then taking the bouquet away and letting it drop to the floor, "Here! Here's the other sleeve." The coat went on.
"Are you coming with me?" persisted Barbara, brightened by the thought.
But Clare did not heed. "When'll she be back?" She avoided looking at Tottie. "—Let me button you, will you?"—this with an impatient tug at the coat.