Olga rang the bell for dinner twice before that closed door was opened.
Chicken Little eyed them curiously as they filed out. Her father looked eager and excited, but her mother’s eyes were red as if she had been crying again.
Dr. Morton put his arm around Chicken Little as she passed her and drew her tenderly to him.
“How would you like to go and live on a farm, Humbug, where you could have chickens and calves and ponies to play with? It would put more color into your face I’ll be bound.”
“Could I have a pony, Father, all my own?”
Dr. Morton nodded.
“Gee, wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Jane,” said Mrs. Morton severely, “how often have I told you that little ladies do not use slang?
“You seem to be planning to let the children run wild when they get out to Kansas,” she added, turning to Dr. Morton, “but I will have them use correct English.”
It did not take the news that the Mortons were moving to Kansas, long to spread in the small town. Visitors flocked in to sympathize with Mrs. Morton over going to a new country, and Dr. Morton’s friends and patients stopped him on the street to express their regret at losing him.