And so it was that the two little girls became friends. They had fine times together playing “house” and “school,” and working on bits of canvas with bright-colored worsteds in cross stitch, and telling stories to each other. Sometimes they wrote their stories and read them to the long rows of paper dolls standing up against the steps. Ella had a great admiration for Ida’s handwriting. Ella’s own writing had perhaps improved a very little, but even now it looked much like a fence that had been caught in an earthquake, its pickets and rails sticking out in all directions; but Ida’s was fair and round and looked quite as if she was grown up.
One reason why they liked to write stories was because they always tied the tiny books together with bright ribbons. Ida had a big box of odds and ends of ribbon, and these she shared generously with Ella. They had been given to her by her Sunday school teacher, who had a little millinery store. Ella did not wish to give up her own Sunday school teacher, but she did think it would be very agreeable if she would open a millinery store.
The two little girls did all sorts of pleasant things together. When Saturday came, Ida ran across the street, her face all aglow with smiles, and gave Ella’s mother a note. Ella could hardly wait till her mother had read it, and she stood first on one foot, then on the other. The note said,
“Will you please let Ella put on a big apron and come to dinner with Ida to-day?”
“Oh, mother, may I go? May I? May I? May I?” cried Ella, dancing about the room. “I know we are to do something nice. What is it, Ida?”
IDA’S MOTHER LOOKED IN AT THE DOOR TO MAKE SURE THAT ALL WAS GOING ON WELL
Ida only laughed, but the mother said yes, and the girls ran across the street and pinned on the big aprons. Then Ida opened a door into a little room back of the kitchen that Ella had never seen.
“This is the Saturday room,” she said.
“Oh, that’s lovely!” Ella cried. “I never saw such a beauty. Can you really do things with it?”