“Daddy and mamma always do,” she said.
“For children, I mean,” said Miss Bibby, correcting herself. “I trust, Pauline, you do not think me capable of reflecting upon the conduct of your father and mother.”
But Pauline was engrossed with her breakfast again.
“All food should be taken dry,” Miss Bibby continued; “and your mother is anxious that I should get you into good ways. At the same time the human system needs a certain degree of liquid, so I shall call you in for your drink meals at eleven, and at three, and you may also have a glass of water each upon retiring.”
Sometimes it made the children quite depressed to watch her. Pauline used to say she would feel perfectly happy if she [p37] could once see Miss Bibby eat a big, lovely woolly currant bun or a plate of rich brown sausages dished on buttered toast.
And Lynn—it actually moved Lynn to poetry, the tragedy of this meagre fare. Pauline was bidden write “the song” down.
“And the name of the song,” added the poetess after a melancholy verse or two, “is ‘Sorrow,’ or ‘Miss Bibby.’”
Muffie told of the appearance of Mrs. Gowan and the heroic conduct of Pauline in announcing their contagion.
Lynn paused in her agreeable occupation of slicing up her banana and adding strawberry jam and milk to it.
“From to-morrow,” she said, “we have to keep in the orchard when we’re at home, so the man won’t hear us shouting.”