And he had plainly intimated that he knew all about it being stolen; how did he know that? And why couldn’t he tell why they had moved away so secretly?
Just a glimmer of this phase of the situation slowly devolved upon Babs, as she flew about happily, taking up her tasks which she had so suddenly allowed to accumulate. Even her room had not been made up, when Miss Davis came early that morning with the bad news. But now Babs was fixing things up, without really knowing she was doing anything. It was no trouble at all to straighten her row of books—they always seemed to fall over without having been touched—and she even dusted the mirror and the hand mirror, folded her towels. Oh, she could do anything now, she felt so much better.
But how did he know that model had been stolen?
Babs took the letter from the drawer and read it again, as if she could thereby penetrate the mind that had written those words.
“Can’t tell you that either just now,” she read after having read the previously written sentence, about his not having stolen the boat. And she wondered and wondered why he couldn’t tell? Why could he not have dropped a hint? But, of course, he must have been in a great hurry, and it was good of him to make that attempt to reach her, Barbara tried to satisfy herself.
“One would think I had stolen the old boat,” she laughed ever so lightly. “And imagine the girls thinking that we would want to adopt a little Italian boy! How quaint! as Lida would say,” and Barbara’s thoughts raced from one end of the subject to the other, but never did they seem willing to take up a different subject.
At lunch Dr. Hale had something to say.
“Do you know, Babs,” he began gently, “that you have been neglecting me?”
“Why, Dads!” she exclaimed, affection pouring out with the words.
“Yes. You know I suggested that you dig up something for us to show in that fair, or whatever it is you are holding, and I haven’t heard a word about your digging.”