“Yes, that would be best and we must be getting back. Frank will be waiting for us.”
Family prayers were hardly decently over the morning after the picnic before Jane Morton climbed into her father’s lap armed with a fine tooth comb and a stiff hair brush.
“I’m going to comb your hair,” she announced ingratiatingly.
Dr. Morton dearly loved to have his shaggy curly head brushed, and scratched with the fine comb, and it was Jane’s office to be comber-in-chief—a duty she was prone to shirk if she could.
“What are you after, Humbug—a new doll?”
“No,” she replied in an injured tone. “I just wanted to know what a cestificut is.”