“Let me slide it,” said Lucy.
“Very carefully,” said her father, “for it is not dry yet.”
“And will it tear, now that it is not dry?” said Lucy.
“Perhaps it may not tear, but it will easily get bent out of shape. To-morrow you can slide it as much as you please.”
The top of the till was just level with the top of the chest, so that the lid would shut down tight, just as if there was no till in it. So Lucy’s father shut the lid down when it was all ready, and told the children that they might put the box away.
“We call it the marble box,” said Lucy.
“I should think you had better call it the convalescent box,” said her father, “since it is to be kept exclusively for cases of convalescence.”
“What does that mean, sir?” said Lucy.
“Convalescence means getting well,” replied her father, “after you have been sick. So I should think that that would be the most appropriate name. It is not really a marble box.”
“No, sir,” said Lucy; “only it looks like marble, and so we call it the marble box.”