“Wrong for once, my beautiful youth,” Phyl answered; “the table-cloth is a miracle of fine workmanship, mother. Further, I did the elbows of Weenie’s blue frock, likewise Alf’s hat, ditto two pairs of Richie’s socks, not to mention doing the vases and thirty-nine other articles of domestic necessity. Don’t you think the quince-tree was entitled to receive me, doctor?”
“I do,” said the doctor; “indeed I think there are about twenty-nine articles too many in that day’s work. Weenie, can’t you keep your elbows in? Richie, we must put you in copper-toed socks. We mustn’t take all the little girl’s time, mother.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Wise, “when I am at home there is more leisure. Besides, it is good for cobwebs, isn’t it, Phyl?”
“I should think driving multiplication into that little beggar Fred would be a safe preservative against all cobweb forming,” said Clif.
Then Phyl looked at Freddie, and Freddie looked at Phyl.
Phyl’s last recollection of Freddie was at about two o’clock, when he was, with many protests, getting out his lesson-books for the afternoon. He had the capes and rivers of New South Wales to learn, so in [203] ]the meantime she thought she would occupy the quince-tree. And this was her next thought of him!
The pink ran into her cheeks; she opened her mouth to confess her forgetfulness.
But at that alarming crisis Freddie spilt his tea; all over the clean cloth it went, and all over his own hands. It was some time before order was restored, for Mary had to bring a tea-cloth and mop up the wet place, and Mrs. Wise had to scold a little, for a soiled cloth was a real trial to her, and then put flour on the hands that Freddie persisted were scalded.
In the confusion Phyl forgot to confess, but Freddie was apprehensive, and kept a watchful eye upon her.
“Well, my editress,” said the doctor, “and how does your learned and valuable magazine progress?”