“If ever a place was misnamed,” Aunt Abigail remarked one day, “this is the spot. Dolittle Cottage. Do-little Cottage,” she repeated, with an emphasis calculated to make her meaning apparent to the most obtuse. “In the course of a few weeks we have become a preparatory school and an orphan asylum.” She looked significantly at Peggy who sat on the steps, feeding the speckled chicken from a spoon. “And our last development is a theatrical agency. Well, I can’t say that it is exactly my idea of a quiet, restful summer.”
The hour of preparation was at its height, and the great occasion less than a week away, when Peggy received news which sent her already buoyant spirits climbing like a rocket. The rural delivery had brought her several letters, and as Priscilla noticed, she pounced first on a missive in a business-like envelope, with a typewritten address. She had hardly read two lines before she interrupted herself with a joyous squeal.
“Girls, isn’t it glorious! Elaine is coming Saturday.”
“Elaine! Why, I thought she said she couldn’t.” Priscilla’s answer was a little less spontaneous than usual.
“Her mother and Grace have been invited somewhere, and they insisted on her coming here. She’s worked so hard, and they feel she needs a change.” Peggy was reading down the page, her bright face aglow with anticipation, but Priscilla’s look indicated no corresponding pleasure, and she answered with a non-committal murmur, when Peggy added, “She’ll be here for the play. I’m so glad.”
And Priscilla struggling to express a degree of satisfaction in the prospect, did not guess how soon she would echo Peggy’s words from the bottom of her heart.
CHAPTER XIV
AUNT ABIGAIL IS MISLAID
The little country schoolhouse had been the scene of varied activity that morning. Even in term time, when the battered desks were occupied, it is a question whether a forenoon’s program would have been more strenuous. Equipped with tape-measures the girls had calculated to a nicety just how much furniture the platform could accommodate, and still give the performers room to make their entrances and exits without colliding with the armchair or overturning the small table. The question of extra benches had also come up for consideration, and the girls had demonstrated to their complete satisfaction that two people of ordinary size could be seated comfortably at each desk. Absorbed in these fascinating calculations, they had failed to notice how rapidly the time was passing, till Dorothy began to complain of being hungry.
“You’re as good as an alarm-clock,” declared Priscilla, consulting her watch. “It’s half-past eleven, Peggy.”