“Well, may I be there to see when the revelation is at last made! Though I prophesy that his behavior in the matter will be as straightforward as it was about the line-fence. Think! We squabbled over it like a couple of silly children, for years and years. I can’t understand now how I could ever have been so absurd. Must you go? Well, then, since your employer wishes you to take little Josephine down town to get that Rudanthy a head, suppose you both go with me in my carriage? I will call for you at three o’clock.”
Miss Kimono thanked her friend and departed; and that same afternoon the unhappy doll’s ruined countenance was replaced by one so beautiful that it almost consoled Josephine for the loss of the more familiar face.
That very day, too, away out in a suburban village, where rents were cheap and needs few, three little lads sat on a bare floor, surrounding a baby, who rejoiced in the high-sounding name of Penelope, but rejoiced in very little else. Even now she was crying for her dinner, and each of the “triplets,” as they were called by the neighbors, was doing his utmost to console her. In reality they were not triplets, though the eldest were twins, and their names were those so objectionable in Uncle Joe’s ears, Tom, Dick, and Harry.
“Here, Penel! You may play with my pin-wheel!” cried the latter.
“No, Harry, she must not. She’ll swallow it. The pin’ll scratch her insides. She swallows everything, Penelope does. And you mustn’t say just ‘Penel.’ Mother doesn’t like that. She says it’s a beautiful name and mustn’t be spoiled.”
“Oh, Tom, you’re always a c’recting a fellow. Well, if she can’t have my pin-wheel, what shall I give her to make her shut up?”
“Maybe I can find something in mother’s cupboard, maybe,” answered Harry.
The tone was doubtful, but the suggestion cheering, and with one accord the triplets left the baby to its fate and betook themselves to the rear room where they ransacked a small pantry, only to find their search rewarded by nothing more palatable than a stale loaf of bread and a few raw potatoes.
“She can’t eat taters, and she can’t eat this bread, ’ithout it’s softened. And there isn’t any milk,” said Dick, despondingly. “I don’t see why we don’t have things like we used to have. I don’t know what made my folks move ’way out here to nowhere, anyway. I was just going to get a new ’rithmetic to my school, and now, I—I hate this.”
“No, you don’t hate it, Dicky. Not always. You’re hungry, that’s all,” said the more thoughtful Tom.