“Good night and sweet dreams,” called the hoys, when Geoffrey had unlocked the door of the cottage.
“Sweet dreams, indeed!” the girls answered in chorus. “The kitchen closet to put in order, also the shed, two trunks to pack, twenty-four hours' dishes to wash, and a million 'odd jobs' more or less.”
“Don't forget the borrowed articles to be returned,” reminded Hugh. “We'll take the pung and do that for you, also attend to the cleaning of the shed, which is more in our line than yours. Boys, let us give one rousing cheer for Dr. and Mrs. Winship, the model parents of the century!”
The welkin rang with hurrahs, in which the girls joined with hearty vigor.
“Now another rousing one for the model daughter of the century,” cried Bell, modestly; “the model daughter who had the bright idea and begged the model parents to assent to it. Of what use would have been the model parents, pray, unless they had had the model daughter with the bright idea?”
More cheers, lustier than ever, floated out into the orchard.
“The model daughter would have had a dull house-party with nothing but her bright idea to keep her company,” said Jo Fenton, suggestively.
“Three cheers for the house party! Three cheers for the 'Jolly Six!' Hip, hip, hurrah!” and at this moment Uncle Harry's window opened and across the breadth of the orchard came the warning note of a conch shell, an instrument of much power, with which Uncle Harry called his men to dinner in haying time. Had it not been for this message of correction it is possible the enthusiastic young people might have cheered one another till midnight.
It was afternoon of the next day. The six little housekeepers were gone, and the dejected hoys went into the garden to take a last look at the empty cottage. On the door was a long piece of fluttering white paper, tied with black ribbon. It proved to be the parting words of the “Jolly Six.”