Twenty times that afternoon the little one made my mother say: "I will not let anyone take you away—no, never. Very well, you shall not pay visits."
And Betty, suspicious, insistent: "Not never?"
"Not never."
Oh, mother! mother! would you had kept your word!
CHAPTER VI
MARTHA'S GOING—YET REMAINING
When I was thirteen years old we lost our ally, Martha Loring. She had been with us since she was fifteen—at first a little scullery-maid. Later, she was promoted, and became a person much trusted, in spite of her youth and her love of fun.
We had all sorts of games and private understandings with Martha. She was a genius at furnishing a dolls' house. She got another friend of ours to make us a dresser for Alexandra's kitchen. This other gifted person was Peter, one of Big Klaus's sons. He was almost twenty, and he used to bring the vegetables. We did not know why he could never bring us our presents at the same time—perhaps out of fear of the cook, who held strict views upon the wickedness of eating between meals. She was elderly, and very easily annoyed.
She never knew that that clever Peter circumvented her by climbing over the orchard wall with our red apples and with pockets full of the hazelnuts we loved. Martha Loring told us that, if ever we spoke of these gifts, they would be forbidden, and Peter would never come any more. So we were most careful.
So was Peter.
So careful that he brought his gifts after dark. Martha used to have to go down the garden and wait for them—wait so long, sometimes, that we fell asleep, and only got Peter's presents in the morning.