“And there was another thing that Sister and I had to help us with our spelling. We each had a slate.”
“A slate!” screamed Davie. “Oh, did you really have a slate?”
“To be sure,” said Miss Parrott.
“All to yourself?” cried Davie, quite gone with excitement.
“Yes, indeed—we each had one. Do you want to see them?”
Davie’s eyes said “Yes” without the word. But he said it aloud nevertheless.
Miss Parrott went over to the same cabinet and put up the doll and the daguerreotype, bringing back two small slates, with a pencil and a little sponge hanging to each.
“Sister’s had a green edge,” she said, holding first one slate up to notice, and then the other, “and this one is mine—with a red border.”
“May I hold it?” begged David, longingly reaching up his hands.
“Indeed you may,” said Miss Parrott, giving it to him. “And, Davie, you may keep that slate. I can’t give away Sister’s—I shall keep that always—but that one is mine. I hope you like red best?” she asked anxiously.