"But we don't know them," burst out Joel Pepper, for she seemed to expect somebody to answer.
"No, but they need you."
"Mistress—mistress," begged Gibson, hanging over her.
"And if you do the work after Lawrence doesn't need it, and he is here with us, well and happy once more, I will see that some sick or unhappy boy gets it."
Joel Pepper hopped out of his chair, upsetting the mucilage bottle, seeing which, Gibson left her mistress to reach the table in time to save a disaster.
"Will you—will you?" he cried, running over to the sofa. "Will you give our things, if we make them, to some poor sick boys who are hurt, Mrs. Sterling?"
"I surely will, Joel," promised Mrs. Sterling, taking his two brown hands in her thin one.
"Then I'm going to make things," declared Joel, who never in his life before had been willing to sit still and cut out and snip and paste and write, and he plunged back to his seat. "Oh!" he cried, in dismay, and his face grew terribly red, "did I upset that?"—pointing to the mucilage bottle.
"You surely did," said Gibson tartly, and taking up the last of the sticky mess with a wet towel, "and I suppose you'll do it again, or some of the rest of you boys will. It don't make much difference which," and she moved off slowly.
"Gibson—Gibson," said Mrs. Sterling gently.