But the door was locked, and then began a time of wild mirth. The food from the village shop was as decidedly unwholesome as the most venturesome little girl could desire. The cakes were nearly leaden in weight, were richly stored with currants, and were underdone; there were awful-looking lollipops of queer shapes and quaint designs, and there was ginger-beer of the worst quality, and lemonade which had never made acquaintance with lemons. But what mattered that? The food thus acquired was all the sweeter because of that wicked little flavour of wrong-doing about it; and Susie and Ned had also supplied great bags of nuts and some very green apples, so that these young folks thought it really was a feast worth being dreadfully naughty to obtain.
They made a table out of some old boxes, and the cakes were cut, and the lemonade went pop, and the dolls’ cups and saucers were brought into great requisition, and time went very merrily both for the naughty little girl and the Rectory children. After the meal came to an end Phyllis began to show the toys she no longer required—the rocking-horse, which her father had given her when she was four years old, and which she had ceased to ride, and the big, big, wonderful dolls’ house which Susie, aged ten, still found one of the most fascinating things in the world.
“You can have them all over at the Rectory,” said Phyllis, with the royal airs of a young queen. “You can send for them any day you like; and there is a box full of dolls over there, and a trunk of dolls’ clothes. I don’t want them—I don’t care for those sort of things without playmates. I tired of them long, long ago, but you can have them.”
“Oh, I say, Phyllis,” cried Susie, and she put both her arms round Phyllis’s neck, “can’t you come and play with all the darling, lovely toys with playmates over at the Rectory?”
“Yes, I could do that,” said Phyllis, looking wistful; “and I love you all,” she cried. “I have been an awfully happy girl to-day if it were not for Miss Fleet.”
Chapter Seven.
When happy times are wrong and come to an end, one generally goes through some bad moments. This was the case on the special occasion which I am describing. Loud was the fun in the big attic, merry the laughter.
The rattling of dolls’ cups and saucers, the popping of lemonade bottles, and the shrieks of mirth over each volley of wit had come to their height, when there came a loud knocking at the attic door. The knocking was immediately followed by the angry turning of the handle, and then by the excited voice of Miss Fleet.