Not once, but many times during the next few days, did Margaret talk with her mother on this subject that so troubled her. The result of these conferences Bobby learned not five days later when Margaret ran down to meet him at the great driveway gate. Back on the veranda Patty and the others were playing “housekeeping,” and Margaret spoke low so that they might not hear.
“I am goin’ to divvy up,” she announced in triumph, “but not here.”
“Huh?” frowned Bobby.
“I am goin’ to divvy up—give ’em some of my things, you know,” explained Margaret; “then when they go back, mother’s goin’ with ’em and find a better place for ’em to live in.”
“Oh, then they are goin’ back—eh?”
Margaret flushed a little and threw a questioning look into Bobby’s face. There seemed to be a laugh in Bobby’s voice, though there was none on his lips.
“Yes,” she nodded hurriedly. “You see, mother thinks it’s best. She says that they hadn’t ought to be here now—with me; that it’s my form’tive period, and that everything about me ought to be just right so as to form me right. See?”
“Yes, I see,” said Bobby, so crossly that Margaret opened her eyes in wonder.
“Why, Bobby, you don’t care ’cause they’re goin’ away; do you?”
“Don’t I?” he growled. “Humph! I s’pose ’twill be me next that’ll be sent flyin’.”