The little girl was nothing loth to accept her sister’s offer, for in spite of her exertions to keep herself awake the heavy eyelids would droop, the curly head press more heavily, and the lively, chattering little tongue grow slower and more indistinct in its utterances until at last it was silent altogether; not even the tiniest line of blue parted the golden lashes, the dimples settled undisturbed into their old places about the rosy mouth while only the faintest breath of a sigh answered to Anne’s good-night kiss as she softly laid her precious burden down among the snowy pillows of her own little bed, and stole away, with the secret resolve in her heart that never again, by word or act, would she deceive the innocent little sister who trusted so implicitly in her truth and honor.
. . . . . . . .
It was a funny party, and Ef May looked about her in astonishment as a servant in dressing gown and night-cap, announced in a sleepy sing-song tone:
“Miss Ef May Marsh?”
Mrs. White, a heavy-eyed lady in an elaborately embroidered and ruffled night-dress, gave her hand a little languid shake, and asked, in a faint, die-away voice:
“How do you rest, my dear?”
“Very well, ma’am, generally, ’cept when I eat too much cake for my supper.”
At this Mrs. White nodded intelligently.
“’S that you, Ef May?” murmured a voice at her elbow, and there was Tommy Bliss, his brown curls all in a tangle, and—oh, horrible! in a yellow flannel night-gown with legs. Such a figure as he was with his short body all the way of a bigness, and his little yellow straddling legs like an old-fashioned brass andiron.
Ef May turned away and pretended not to see him, while she remarked with an air of kindly condescension to a little girl near her: