“Oh, dear—dear!” wailed Alexia, “my face is all stuck up; somebody—where’s Mrs. Higby? Oh, somebody wash it, please!” She was rushing around after her bonnet now, Elyot hanging to the apron-strings valiantly, this process tying them tighter than ever at each step.
“Here, hold on, can’t you!” roared Pickering. “You’ll never get her undone at that rate.”
“Yes, I will, too,” cried Elyot, tugging away, and tumbling against Mrs. Higby with a towel, wet at one end, in her hand.
“Oh, dear, dear! and that blessed child at home alone,” cried Alexia. “Mercy! here’s my best bonnet down by the coal-scoop. Well, as long as I’ve got anything to put on my head I suppose I should be thankful. Oh, dear! where’s that wet towel? Do cut the strings of this horrible old apron—Oh, dear! what shall I do!” She whirled around on them all, as the door opened, and in ran Polly and Jasper, with glowing cheeks.
“For goodness sake, Alexia!” began Polly.
“Whew! Is it a menagerie?” cried Jasper.
“Well, it’s bad enough to go visiting, and have your friends run off to see horrible old women,” said Alexia, whirling more than ever, “without coming back to laugh at one’s misery. Oh, that’s a dear, Mrs. Higby!” as that good lady’s scissors clicked, and set her free. “I’ll bring you out a new pair of strings next time I come. Come on, Pickering—good-by, everybody;” and she was out and running down the path by the time he found his hat.
“Oh dear!” and back she came again, “I forgot my face; it’s all stuck up. Do, somebody, wash this molasses off.” And Polly gave her a dab with the wet towel, and a little kiss at the same time.
“You didn’t wash it in the right place,” grumbled Alexia, running off again; “it was the other cheek. Oh dear, dear! Come on, Pickering; we shall lose the train.”