And in a twinkling, Lydia was running down the hall calling:
“Miss Martin! Miss Martin! One of my ‘brown bettys’ is gone, and Mary Ellen took it! Mary Ellen has taken one of my ‘brown bettys’!”
[CHAPTER XI—Who Stole the Brown Betty?]
Out on the front veranda, in the twilight, sat Miss Martin surrounded by a little group of children. It was the quiet hour before bedtime when, by ones and twos and threes, the children came together for the talk or story that made a pleasant ending to their day.
To-night, Louise and Minette were having a lesson in English. They were perched like two little blackbirds on the arm of Miss Martin’s chair, and Louise was repeating obediently, “Yez, Meez Mart, I lov’ you, Jo,” while Minette’s contribution was to pull her curls across her eyes and laugh. Mary Ellen sat on the top step, engrossed in the braiding of a horse-hair ring. Sammy and Tom, escorting little Roger, came round the house from the barn, and settled themselves at Miss Martin’s feet.
“Tell us a story, please, Miss Martin,” begged Josephine, twisting Louise’s black curls as she spoke, “about when you were a little girl.”
“Were you ever a little girl?” asked Gus, sitting up straight in his amazement. “Did you ever have a father and a mother?”
Miss Martin laughed, but before she could answer this question there was a sound of flying feet, and Lydia ran out into the midst of the peaceful scene.
“My slippers! My ‘brown bettys’!” she gasped excitedly. “One is gone! Mary Ellen took it. I know she did! I can’t find it, and Polly can’t find it either.”
Mary Ellen dropped her horse-hair ring, and stared at Lydia in astonishment.