“What on earth is the matter now?” Graham knew the answer to his question, even before he asked it, and was irritated. If it was amusing to make Ruth scream by pointing his finger in her direction, when he was in a teasing mood, it was extremely annoying to have her suspect him of such intentions when his conscience was altogether clear, when indeed, with Peggy as a witness, he had solemnly renounced all such diversions forever. “What are you making such a fuss about?” he insisted, as Ruth did not answer.
“You were going to tickle me.”
“Nothing of the sort. Oh, say! The rest of those cakes are burning up. Peggy, you’d better get somebody to help you who will attend to her business.”
Peggy saved the situation by telling Graham he could take in the hash, and that there was so much batter that a few scorched cakes would never be missed. “You carry in the coffee,–will you, Ruth?” said Peggy, and improved the opportunity to resume her former position by the griddle. Ruth understood the manœuvre, and her heart swelled. Evidently Peggy thought she couldn’t do anything right, not even turn a griddle-cake when it was brown. And Graham was actually cross. She began to think it did not pay to be heroic in order to spare the feelings of such inconsiderate people.
Poor Ruth could not eat. She sipped her coffee and played with her fork, expecting every moment that some one would notice that her food had not been touched and inquire the reason. To tell the truth, Ruth had reached the point where she would not have been averse to such an inquiry, and the attendant necessity of explanation. It was much pleasanter, she had decided, to have people know you were feeling sick, and trying to be brave about it, than to suffer in heroic silence, sustained only by your own sense of virtue. But, to her surprise and disappointment, no questions were asked. The gay party surrounding the breakfast-table was too engrossed with satisfying clamorous appetites, and discussing the day’s program, to notice that one of the number was not eating. This confirmed Ruth’s impression, that it was, after all, a selfish, if not a heartless world.
“Now, Peggy,” began Priscilla, when the last plate of golden-brown cakes had failed to melt away after the fashion of their predecessors, “nobody can eat another thing. As long as you got the breakfast, Ruth and I will wash the dishes.”
“And Claire and I will make the beds,” said Amy, “while Peggy attends to the menagerie.” Amy had always continued the disrespectful custom of referring to Peggy’s poultry yard as the menagerie.
“It won’t take me ten minutes to attend to the chickens and Hobo, too.” Peggy left the table, and went blithely out to the small coop, shaped like a pyramid, with slats nailed across the front, where the yellow hen exercised maternal supervision over six chickens. Whether or not the thunder-storm was responsible, Mrs. Cole’s foreboding regarding the other nine eggs had been justified by the outcome. But to make up for this disappointment, the six chickens which had hatched had turned out to be as downy and yellow and generally fascinating as the chickens favored by the artists who design Easter cards, and this agreeable surprise had enabled the optimistic Peggy to take an entirely cheerful view of the situation.
It was a shock to the others when a wailing cry came to their ears from the vicinity of the chicken coop. Priscilla, who was just filling her dish-pan with steaming water, set the kettle down so hastily as narrowly to escape scalding herself, and ran to the scene of the excitement. The others followed with the exception of Ruth, who was glad of the opportunity to drop into a chair and press her hands to her throbbing temples.
The cause of Peggy’s cry of distress was at once apparent. She stood beside the coop, a motionless ball of down on her open palm. Below the yellow hen scratched blithely and clucked to her diminished family.