"Oh, mine is not important," said Zee, "the cooking is the big job."
"It is, too, important," cried Treasure indignantly. "Poor little Zee has been darning and mending every minute for the last month—and her fingers are all pricked up, and she got so tired of it—but she can do it just fine, and she is going to all the rest of the time—and she and I have been making beds and sweeping, and we are awfully smart at it—if we do say so ourselves—and so, Miss General, you are out of a job. Zee and I take the whole house."
"But what am I to do?" asked Doris dazedly.
MacCammon squeezed her fingers suggestively, but Doris could not or would not get the message.
"You are to play with father, and call on the sick," said Zee glibly. "We've got it all figured out. You and father and Rosalie are to play all summer, go camping, and fishing and hunting—and go driving around the country to conventions and chautauquas, and—and—everything."
"Oh, that blessed car," said Doris. "Oh, dear Mr. Davison, how good and kind he was."
"Doris will have Mr. Davison haloed before long. He has grown constantly better since the day of his death."
"It taught me a lesson, Rosalie. I never believed there was any good in that man at all—but now I know there must have been a divine spark in him all the time, and maybe if we had not been so sure he was no good, we might have fanned the spark a little before he died. I feel guilty about Mr. Davison—my conscience hurts."