Two little snub noses were flattening themselves against the nursery window pane, while the four eager eyes watched the soft flakes whirling through the air and silently descending upon the whitening earth.
“Sposen we was to steal out,” whispered the boy, “an’ hide, so Mammy couldn’t never find us no more.”
An excited chuckle interrupted the further development of this deliciously lawless scheme; but, though the little sister caught the infection, she prudently turned from the tempting prospect, saying, “No, Sed, I’s ’fraid you might git the croups an’ die.”
The other occupants of the room were a little roly-poly cherub of a girl, seated in a tiny chair, holding in her arms a rag baby, which she rocked and dangled in servile imitation of her mammy, who, with bumpings peculiar to the nursery chair, was rocking to sleep a still younger babe. A fair little maiden, curled up comfortably upon a cushion, the firelight glistening upon her yellow locks, bent over a book, from which she read, in high-pitched, childish voice, to her mammy, the story of “Ellen Lynn.” Mammy was very proud that her nursling could read, and would cast admiring looks upon the child as she bent over her book, with finger pointing to each word. Both were absorbed in the story, and every picture was examined with scrupulous care.
Another occupant of the nursery was “Chany,” the under nursemaid. Gawky, sleek, and black, she sat flat upon the floor, her large, well-shod feet turned to the fire, a picture of lazy, vacant content.
“Ch-Ch-Chany,” stuttered Mammy, “look in de top drawer an’ git a hankcher and blow dat chile’s nose. Go on wid yo book, honey; Mammy ain’t goin’ ’sturb you no mo.”
“Mr. Lynn left the sleigh, and turning from the island”—piped little Caroline. Then there came another prolonged snuffle from Sedley.
“You Ch-Ch-Chany, why’n’t you git dat hankcher?” caused that languid maiden to bestir herself. Having fumbled in the drawer for the handkerchief, she approached the window, but no sooner did the little boy become aware of her intention than, with a rebellious shake of his curly head, he buried his nose in his little chapped fists, and, regardless of Sibyl’s advice, that he had better be good, he firmly stood his ground, determined to resist Chany to the death.
“He ain’t gwine let me tetch him,” said Chany, feebly dabbing at him with the handkerchief.
“Do, pray, gal, don’t be so no-’count,” Mammy answered. Then Chany, stung by the imputation, made another helpless dive; a scuffle ensued, in which she was utterly routed, and the victorious Sedley threw himself upon Mammy’s lap.