“Never mind, Della,” Bertha condoned, “I have an extra sugar cookie,—they’re made out of real cream—and you shall have it.”
“Yum-m!” murmured Rosamond as she took a bite of her sugar cookie. “Aren’t they delicious! I suppose you made them, Burdie.”
“I did that,” Bertha replied, expecting again to hear how practical she was.
“You’ll make a good wife for a poor man, a missionary or somebody like that,” said Doris Drexel, as she nibbled daintily on her cookie, to make it last as long as she could.
“Marry!” said Bertha scornfully. “I’m not going to marry anybody.”
“Well, you needn’t be so snappy about it,” laughed Doris. “I didn’t mean right away, to-morrow. I know you’re only thirteen, though tall for your age.”
“Girls!” the sentimental Rosamond exclaimed. “Which one of us do you suppose will have the first romance?”
“Not I,” laughed Adele, as she sprang up and shook the crumbs from her lap; and then she added reproachfully, “There’s somebody at this picnic who hasn’t had a bite to eat and it’s a shame, so it is. He’s coming now to tell us what he thinks about it.”
The girls looked around and there stood Firefly, gazing reproachfully at them.
“I choose to feed him,” cried Betty Burd, springing up; and dancing again to the cart, she called gayly, “Come on, you darling Firefly. Here’s the nicest hay for you, and some oats and a lump of sugar for your dessert.”