“Mother, don’t you think it’s about time for Sunday clothes?” asked that young person, coaxingly.
“Ye-s; if Robert will be—”
“I’ll be as good as a gold boy, Motherkin! I’ll be as good as Roland, if I can!”
A general laugh greeted this promise, and under cover of it, Bonny lifted her little brother from his couch of punishment and bore him aloft, to return in about five minutes looking perfectly cherubic in a clean face and the aforementioned holiday attire.
“Now,” said Bonny, after the supper things had been cleared away and the little household had gathered before the blaze upon the hearth, which partly Mrs. Beckwith’s fondness for it and partly the still chilly evenings rendered a nightly affair,—“now have I at last the permission of the household to relieve my mind of its terrible tension? I have been keeping a secret for—six—mortal—hours and if I can’t tell it soon I shall be ill, maybe.”
“The Secretary has the floor!” responded the now joyful mother.
“Then, it has been proposed to me— No, that isn’t the best, the most mysterious way of beginning. Ahem! Has anybody found out the hidden source of my promised wealth? Has anybody learned the secret of The Lindens?”
“Yep,” answered Robert, promptly, “skunks.”
“Oh, you horrid youngster! Say ‘Mephitis’ whenever you have occasion to mention so inodorous a subject. No, you are not right. Next?”
“Knowledge under difficulties,” volunteered Belle.