“I am afraid so—you remember your mother warned you against selecting all those intricate patterns.”
Ernest remembered only too distinctly, but he preferred not to be reminded of it.
“Is there anything a fellow can do?” he demanded after three horrid days of close confinement with the blinds down.
“Not much, poor boy, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Morton replied pityingly. “I’ll read to you a couple of hours this morning and perhaps Sherm and Carol will come in for a while after school. I’ll send word to them by Chicken Little. Mrs. Dart sent you over one of her custard pies just now.”
The custard pie sounded comforting.
“How long is it till dinner time?”
“Only about three hours—we might let you have a taste now if you are impatient,” Mrs. Morton said.
“Oh, I can wait but the hours seem so plaguey long when you can’t see. Read me Alice’s letter again, will you? Gee, I wish she were here—she always knew how to help a chap out.”
“Better than mother?” Mrs. Morton couldn’t help feeling a trifle nettled.
Ernest felt the tone.