“You nice Mary!” Jane endorsed her. “And let’s call it Slumber Day, because we tuck all our flowers up in their beds then.”
Thus Slumber Day became a settled observance with the Gardens, and around it many little customs gathered, pleasant little fanciful things which, once done, seemed good to the girls and were noted for repetition.
“This year there are four girls instead of three, little madrina!” said Mary. “You mustn’t work and get tired—we get so tired on this day we can hardly eat our supper! But you must help on Slumber Day, or it won’t seem right. We forgot to tell you about the uniform! Isn’t that too bad! Of course something else will answer.”
“Anne told me about it; mine is ready,” Mrs. Garden said, and she looked delighted to be able to surprise her girls with this answer. “Breakfast at seven on that day, Anne says. I wonder whether I can get ready so early! I shall, whether I can or not!” Mrs. Garden hastily forestalled Mary’s coming suggestion that the hour be made later for her benefit.
She was as good as her word. At ten minutes to seven she ran downstairs, dressed in the Slumber Day uniform, a dark-blue, plain gingham, short skirt, plain shirt waist, tan gingham collar and cuffs—selected because it was so near loam colour—an enamel cloth apron, long enough to kneel on, rubber gloves, and a cap of the dark-blue gingham, made like a dusting cap, but each one ornamented with a bright-green cotton wing, wired so that it stood straight and defiant and gave a touch of festivity to the otherwise sternly practical costume.
“Doesn’t she look dear in that?” cried Florimel, rushing over to snatch her mother off her feet in an enthusiastic salute.
“I wonder why it is, but if any one really is pretty and stylish she looks better in working clothes than she does dressed up! Mary and I would rather have had a red wing in our cap, but they had to be alike, and Jane isn’t quite as pretty in red as she is in other things.”
Jane laughed. “Pussy-cat way of putting it, Mel, creeping on tippy-toes! Fancy bright red on my hair!” she cried.
“How nice, how pretty you all look—well, yes; I suppose I might say we all look, since I’m dressed like you, but I can’t see the effect of the fourth uniform,” Mrs. Garden corrected herself, seeing Florimel’s protest coming. “You look like a trio costumed for something in light opera.”
“The Digger Maidens,” suggested Win. “I’ve got to go to the office this morning, as I told you, but I promise to help you all the afternoon. So long, till then.” He went off whistling. Jane turned from the window with a wave of her hand to Win, who chanced to look back.