“I’m not sure but you’ve got the worst end of it,” remarked Priscilla, casting a dismayed glance about her. “How in the world did shavings get scattered over this room from one end to the other?”
As no one had anything to offer in explanation, Peggy went to find the dustpan and was absent for some minutes. By this time the fire was blazing merrily, and throwing off an amount of heat quite unnecessary for a mild June evening. Even while the girls were exchanging congratulations on their success, it was to be noticed that they did not form a compact circle about the fireplace, but sat in the most remote corners of the room, and fanned themselves with newspapers.
“It’s the strangest thing,” announced Peggy returning, “I can’t find the dustpan high or low.”
Amy jumped. “Didn’t she bring it back?”
“Who? Not Mrs Snooks?”
“Yes, she came when you’d gone to pay Mrs. Cole, and she said she’d send her little girl back with it in half an hour or so.”
“It’s certainly strange,” said Peggy, giving evidences of exasperation, “that when we’ve only one of a thing, that’s exactly what Mrs. Snooks wants to borrow. Of course it’s nice for neighbors to help one another out, especially in a place like this where you are so far from a store. If it was baking-powder, I wouldn’t say a word. But a dustpan.”
“It was baking-powder yesterday,” suggested Amy. “Sweep the shavings into a corner, Peg, and let’s start on the stories. Now, Aunt Abigail, here’s your chance to shine.”
“Oh, yes, Aunt Abigail,” echoed Peggy, for it had early been decided that Amy should not be allowed a monopoly in the use of that affectionate title. “We’ve heard you were the best ever, since the woman in the Arabian Nights–what was her name–Scheherezade,–and we want to know if Amy was exaggerating.”
Aunt Abigail smiled complacently.