“I want just three,” said Mary, whose theological knowledge had increased notably since her residence with Mrs. Elliott. “Just three—setting up on my head, like a corownet, a big one in the middle and a small one each side.”
“Are there different sizes in souls?” asked Carl.
“Of course. Why, little babies must have smaller ones than big men. Well, it’s getting dark and I must scoot home. Mrs. Elliott doesn’t like me to be out after dark. Laws, when I lived with Mrs. Wiley the dark was just the same as the daylight to me. I didn’t mind it no more’n a gray cat. Them days seem a hundred years ago. Now, you mind what I’ve said and try to behave yourselves, for you pa’s sake. I’ll always back you up and defend you—you can be dead sure of that. Mrs. Elliott says she never saw the like of me for sticking up for my friends. I was real sassy to Mrs. Alec Davis about you and Mrs. Elliott combed me down for it afterwards. The fair Cornelia has a tongue of her own and no mistake. But she was pleased underneath for all, ‘cause she hates old Kitty Alec and she’s real fond of you. I can see through folks.”
Mary sailed off, excellently well pleased with herself, leaving a rather depressed little group behind her.
“Mary Vance always says something that makes us feel bad when she comes up,” said Una resentfully.
“I wish we’d left her to starve in the old barn,” said Jerry vindictively.
“Oh, that’s wicked, Jerry,” rebuked Una.
“May as well have the game as the name,” retorted unrepentant Jerry. “If people say we’re so bad let’s be bad.”
“But not if it hurts father,” pleaded Faith.
Jerry squirmed uncomfortably. He adored his father. Through the unshaded study window they could see Mr. Meredith at his desk. He did not seem to be either reading or writing. His head was in his hands and there was something in his whole attitude that spoke of weariness and dejection. The children suddenly felt it.