“Yes, he said a lot. He asked me how you were and how Mamma was and if we’d heard from Frank and Marian. He asked a lot about you——” Chicken Little caught herself just in time. “I think he’s just beautiful—don’t you, Alice? He walked most home with me and carried my books just like I was grown up.”
Alice hugged her by way of reply.
“I told him how you always saved the cookies for us and how Ernest said you were a brick and he said Ernest evidently had good taste.”
Alice’s face took on several expressions during this recital. When the child had finished, she said gravely:
“Jane, will you do me a favor?”
Chicken Little was all attention.
“Please don’t say anything to the other children about what Mr. Harding said or about his sending me the flowers—will you?”
Chicken Little readily promised though she looked disappointed. Secrets certainly had their drawbacks.
She put her own flowers in water in one of her mother’s best vases, a white hand holding a snowy tulip, and stood off to admire the effect. Then she soberly hunted up a box of tiny, vivid pink note paper, a much treasured possession, and set to work on the fateful letter. She selected the front parlor as the most secluded spot she could find, the front parlor being reserved for visitors and holidays exclusively.
Its quiet this evening was almost oppressive. Jane stared about the room seeking inspiration in vain. The old mahogany chairs upholstered in hair cloth were shinily forbidding. The globes of wax flowers and fruit that adorned two small marble-topped tables, were equally cold. The silver water set suggested ice water, and the “Death of Wesley” which monopolized one wall could hardly be considered cheering. Chicken Little shivered, and taking an ottoman, ensconced herself between the lace curtains at a west window where the late autumn sunshine was still streaming in.