“But, my dear children,” began Marjorie, in a very superior, elder-sisterly tone, “that is perfectly absurd. With all the raft of children we have now, we can’t adopt a whole orphan asylum. Besides, her mother will be looking for her; probably she is nearly frantic. You must send her to the police station.”
“There!” cried Eunice, aggrieved, “that old police station again! Everybody says that. As if I would have this cunning thing, that loves me so, shut up in a horrid old black cell. Why, she’d be as afraid as anything.”
“They don’t put lost children in cells,” began Marjorie, and then stopped, not quite certain what they did do with them. “At any rate, you ought to take her there. People always do.”
“I shan’t do it,” said Eunice, stoutly.
“And, Marjorie, she’d be frightened to death among all those big men,” expostulated Cricket. “We have just got to keep her.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” compromised Marjorie. “I’ll send Jane around to the police station, and tell them she’s here, and describe her, and leave our address. If any one comes, they can send here.”
Just then the door-bell rang.
CHAPTER VII.
MOSINA.
In a moment, Jane came up with a telegram from mamma, saying that she would stay in Marbury all night, as it looked like rain, and Kenneth had a slight cold.
The children looked at each other in blank dismay. Mamma’s absence, for one night, really made no difference at all, but they felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the house. Of course mamma had not known of papa’s absence for the night, as he had been telegraphed for after she had left in the morning.