“These are good ones,” said he, ranging them on the floor before him. “I’m going to begin to string.”
Phil’s taste was severe. He had chosen several large, dark, velvet buttons, a brass military button, a useful black button or two that might have come from his father’s coat, a flat silver disk as big as a dollar, and, as a lighter touch, all the buttons he could find covered with a gay tartan plaid gingham.
Susan uttered cries of delight as she rapidly made her selection.
“Look at these blue diamonds,” she exclaimed rapturously over some glass buttons that had seen better days. “And here is one with beautiful pink flowers painted on it. Here is a white fur one off my baby coat, and these little violet-and-white checks are from Grandmother’s gingham dress. I know they are.”
“Now this is the grandmother,” she went on, taking up a fat brown doorknob of a button. “I’ll put her on my string first of all, so that she can take care of the rest of them. And next I’ll put this little green velvet one so that it won’t be lonesome.”
“Which is your touch button?” asked Phil, after working busily in silence for a whole minute.
“Shh-h-h!” warned Susan, looking carefully about her before answering, as if a spy might be peeping through the keyhole or even hiding behind the one-eared rabbit. “This one. It’s my favorite, too.” And she touched a hard little rose-colored ball that looked uncommonly like a pill. “Which is yours?”
Phil proudly displayed the military button, and whirled away from Susan just in time to keep the secret from his mother who entered the room, bearing a tray.
“Are you ready for your refreshments?” she asked, setting her burden down upon the table. “Oh, let me see your button strings.”
She took both strings in her hand to look them over, and to the delight of the children she touched both of the charmed buttons.