“Gross flattery! Now I know you are scheming, so ’fess right off,” cried Constance, whirling around to peer into her mother’s face, and break into a merry laugh.
Mrs. Carruth pursed up her lips into a derisive pucker, and looked into the merry eyes of this sunshiny daughter.
“And if I am, what then?” she asked.
“I knew it!” was the triumphant retort. “But I dare not waste time bringing you to order now. Yes, you may help wrap. If anything will wheedle you into being good, letting you get busy will,” ended Constance, turning to the table and deftly lifting the squares to the flat pans upon which they were to be carried to the packing room.
“Shoo along in there and get busy if you must, and while you are getting sticky enough to satisfy even yourself, you will tell me what is simmering. And mind, Mary can hear, too; so if it is too anarchistic she will come to the rescue. Oh, you can’t do as you used to. Whyfor do I make candy by the pounds innumerable? Whyfor do I send it to tickle many palates? Whyfor do I take in dollars galore? All, all to keep you from running off on some wild project whereby you shall earn as many more dollars to my utter undoing, lost glory and disgrace appalling to contemplate in a girl who has a tendency to grow fat—yes, fat!”
As she rattled on with her nonsense Constance worked busily getting out her paraffin paper, the necessary boxes and the dainty ribbons with which to tie them. Then seating herself beside her mother, who was already busy wrapping the fudge in its little squares of paraffin, she began packing the candy in its boxes.
“Now, what is it?” she asked, looking quizzically into the sweet, lovable face. Mrs. Carruth laughed a low, little laugh as she asked: “Why are you so sure that it is anything?”
“I know the signs. They have periodical simmerings, sort of seismic rumblings, so to speak,” nodded Constance, working swiftly.
“I feel such a drone in a busy hive—” began Mrs. Carruth, then hesitated.
“I knew it! Mary, it has bubbled to the surface again,” Constance called into the kitchen, where brisk footsteps testified to the occupant’s industry.