“Alice—in this house—a servant-girl—nonsense! Dear me, I hope she isn’t untruthful; she seemed so promising.”
“But she says her father used to own this house—she says they weren’t always poor, and she never ’spected to have to be a hired girl. Yes, and Katy says she remembers when the Fletchers lived here and they used to have a lot of company—didn’t you, Katy?” Katy nodded importantly.
“Yes, Ma-am, my mother says it’s a shame Alice has to go out to work. She says it would break her mother’s heart, only she’s dead and doesn’t know it.”
“And her father’s dead, too,” broke in Gertie, anxious to add her quota, “but she’s got an uncle and aunt that ain’t dead—they live a long way off in Cincinnati, but they’re so stuck up they won’t do anything for Alice.”
“Well, never mind now, I’ll investigate this some other time,” Mrs. Morton replied absently, still fussing with her lace. Tiny beads of perspiration were standing out on her flushed face—she kept dabbing them away with her handkerchief.
It was a hot day for late September and Mrs. Morton found tight corsets and a close-fitting silk dress trials to Christian fortitude. But she was a resolute, dignified lady who knew her duty to her church and to society and did it, regardless of her own comfort or her family’s.
“But, Mother, aren’t you sorry for Alice?”
“My dear, I didn’t call you in to talk about Alice. I want you to play quietly with your dolls this afternoon like little ladies. Remember to keep your dress clean, Chicken Little, you have to wear it again tomorrow afternoon. I don’t want to come home and find it all stained and torn off the belt as I did yesterday. And don’t forget to be polite to your guests. Kiss me good-by now, and run along.”
The children, a little disappointed over the meager effect of their sensation, obediently filed out.
They collected the dolls and ensconced themselves under a spreading maple in the fence corner to play house, but dolls somehow seemed tame.