“Leslie,” he said gently, as if he had suddenly grown much older than his sister, “can’t you see you’re hurting Cloudy? Cut it out! If Cloudy likes Sunday, she shall have it the way she wants it.”
Leslie turned with sudden compunction.
“O Cloudy, dear, I didn’t mean to hurt you; indeed I didn’t! I never thought you’d care.”
“It’s all right, dear,” said Julia Cloud with her gentle voice, and just the least mite of a gasp. “You see––I––Sunday has been always very dear to me; I hadn’t realized you wouldn’t feel the same.”
She seemed to shrink into herself; and, though the smile still trembled on her lips, there was a hovering of distress over her fine brows.
“We will feel the same!” declared Allison. “If you feel that way so much, we’ll manage somehow to be loyal to what you think. You always do it for us; and, if we can’t be as big as you are, we haven’t got the gang spirit. It’s teamwork, Leslie. Cloudy goes to football games, and makes fudge for our friends; and we go to church and help her keep Sunday her way. See?”
“Why, of course! Sure!” said Leslie, half bewildered. “I didn’t mean not to, of course, if Cloudy likes such things; only she’ll have to teach me how, for I never did like those things.”
“Well, I say, let’s get Cloudy to spend the first Sunday telling us how she thinks Sunday ought to be kept, and why. Is that a bargain, Cloudy?”
“But I’m afraid I wouldn’t be wise enough to explain,” faltered Julia Cloud, distress in her voice. “I could maybe find something to read to you about it.”