“They weren’t very big,” moaned Christopher.
“That made them all the greener,” replied his grandfather grimly.
“I only ate six, grandfather,” put in Jane consolingly. “I felt as if I’d had enough after three, but I couldn’t stop there, you know.”
In spite of his anxiety grandfather laughed. Then he got up to go in search of grandmother. She appeared in the doorway just then, looking very comfortable and cool in a fresh white dress.
“Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s head is better, children, and she would like to see you up in her——” she began and stopped short.
“What is the matter with the children?” she cried, looking at them in great alarm.
“Jane ate six green apples and Kit lost count after the eighth. Is there anybody handy to send for the doctor?”
Grandmother looked dismayed, but faced the situation bravely.
“A drink of hot peppermint water will fix them, I think,” she said. “And if that doesn’t castor oil will. Dr. Greene has been called to Westside to take charge of a typhoid fever case and won’t be back to-night.”
After the children had been put to bed with warm, soothing drinks, and had had hot milk toast for supper, sitting up in bed with their wrappers on to eat it, Christopher suddenly bethought himself of grandfather’s good news.