Madame Deriby’s permission was readily obtained, and Betty Burd declared that she just knew that she wouldn’t sleep a wink, but the next morning Adele had to throw a pillow to awaken the little maiden.
“Betty!” she called. “You can’t guess what’s going to happen to-day!”
Their youngest rubbed her eyes, and then, leaping out of bed, she pirouetted about gleefully while the older girls begged her to watch out for pins.
Thanksgiving Day had dawned golden and bright, and the girls were so excited that the morning hours seemed to drag, but at last the noon repast was over and they flocked to Apple-Blossom Alley to deck themselves in their prettiest finery.
At one o’clock many of them, with completed toilets, were in the corner room admiring one another and bubbling over with joyous anticipation, when there came a knock at the door.
“Peg, please open it!” Adele was busily fastening Betty’s hardest hooks.
It was Marie, the maid, carrying a long, large box. “For Miss Gertrude,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, Trudie, who do you suppose has been sending you flowers?” exclaimed Rosamond, the romantic.
“I can’t guess, but we will soon know,” the other said brightly as she snipped the yellow cord.
“Oh! Oh! What pretty, curly chrysanthemums!” Doris Drexel cried. “Here’s a little envelope, Trudie,” she added, lifting it from the blossoms and handing it to the older girl.