We got away while the neighbors in our end of town were still at breakfast, and as we passed the Wallace's place we ran up to holler good-by through the window at them, and there was the youngest Wallace foolin' on the floor with her stockings not on yet, and breakfast half over. Marthy stopped long enough to have a good, long look at the child.
“If all the children was like Daisy Wallace,” she says, “they wouldn't be so bad. She is the dearest thing I ever did see. She's got the cutest way of kissin' a person on the eyelids.”
“She looks to be just as lazy in the dressin' act as the rest,” I remarked, and I was surprised, the way Marthy turned on me.
“Why, Hiram Smith!” she cried; “didn't you ever dawdle over your dressin'? When I was a girl I got lots of fun out of being late to breakfast. What difference does it make, anyway, when she is perfectly lovely all the rest of the time? I simply love that child. I wonder,” she said, sort of wistful, “if they would let us take her with us to-day. She would enjoy it so.”
“Foolishness,” I said. “We don't want to pull a kid along with us all day; and anyhow, they are going to take her to the photographer's to-day to have her picture took.”
We went out around town, and up the hill road. The morning air was great, and nobody on the road at all, so far as we could see, and we stepped out brisk and lively.
“Seems good to git away from the baby district, don't it?” I says, as we was walkin' up the road. “We 're like Mister and Missus Robinson Crusoe,” and at the very next turn we most fell over Bobby Jones and his everlastin' chum, Rex, which is the most no-account dog on earth.