"Trixy!" exclaimed Trif in her most severe tone, while Phil put another section of orange into the child's mouth and his hand over her lips, while Trif continued:
"Go along, Fenie. Change your dress quickly; I'll run up stairs and help you."
"And I," said Trixy, after a struggle with the orange and her father's hand, "I'll entertain Mr. Trewman till you come down."
Three adult smiles were slyly exchanged as the child assumed an air of importance, tumbled out of her high-chair and started toward the parlor, while her mother and aunt slipped up the back stairway and Phil buried his face in the evening paper.
"Good evenin', Harry," said the little maid, as she bounced into the parlor.
"Oh, Trixy!" exclaimed the young man rising in haste. "How do you do, little girl? I'm very much obliged to you for calling me Harry. It sounds as if you rather liked me."
"So I do," replied Trixy. "I s'pose I ought to have said 'Mr. Trewman,' but papa and mamma and Aunt Fee always calls you 'Harry' when they talk about you, so I said it without thinkin'."
"Oh, they do, eh?" Mr. Trewman's clear complexion flushed pleasurably and his moustache was twirled thoughtfully. If the family talked of him familiarly, there seemed special reason for him to hope.
"Yes, they do it lots. I get sick of it sometimes, 'cause I want to ask 'em somethin', and mamma says I mustn't ever interrupt grown people when they're talkin', so I can't ask it, and afterward maybe I forget what I was going to ask, and that bothers me like ev'rythin'."