"And we need fairy godmothers," added Happie. "Our dear father didn't know how to get rich, and when he died, four years ago, poor little mother had to take his place. She's such a frail, delicate little Charlotte-mother! It's not easy. We are all pining for the day when she won't have to work for us, but we can work for her. How she goes down in town every morning to an office. We keep house alone. Bob is in a real estate office in the forenoon, but mother insists on his staying at home to study in the afternoon; she is such a learned darling that she gives us all a good education by teaching us at night, though she is tired to death. Isn't she blessed? That's all of us; our history."
Ralph Gordon's humorous face grew grave, and a look of admiration and respect dawned in his laughing eyes. "It's great," he said in boyish commendation of true heroism. "I have a good mother, too," he added. "My father died when Snigs—that's my brother; he's thirteen, and I guess his name's Charley, but of course Snigs is much better—well, when Snigs was three years old and I was five, father died. Mother didn't have much either. She has kept us at school, and managed pretty well—you see she came of good old fighting, revolutionary stock, and she never dipped her colors once, though she had enough to discourage her. She means me to go to college—she has gone without everything she could give up to save enough to start me, and for the rest I am to help myself through. She has moved up here thinking she could rent a room or so in this flat to some of the boys up there at Columbia, and so get on better until I start, which can't be for two years more. I guess my mother is stronger, more able to bear her burdens than yours is, from what you say, but I've got my hat off to my mother, too, every time. Talk about women's rights! They're about as near right as they can be, rights or not, and when there's anything to be done they don't fall far behind men in pluck and stick-to-it-iveness, I notice."
"Hear, hear!" cried Margery and Happie. "We're much obliged."
"Don't mention it," said Ralph generously. "I hope you will live up to my high opinion."
"I wonder if your cat—Whoop-la, isn't it?—got into both pans of fudge, Happie?" suggested Margery.
"Sure enough!" cried Happie departing on this hint, as Ralph exclaimed: "Thank goodness, you are beginning to prove yourself worthy of my confidence in your sex!"
Happie returned with a pan of fudge, which she examined carefully under the gaslight, turning it at different angles to make sure that Whoop-la's paws had not touched it.
"I think it's all right," she announced at last. "It would surely show if he had stepped into it."
"Certainly," assented Ralph promptly. "And departing leave behind him, footprints in the bands of line. I see you've marked it off into squares. But if he had stepped on it, N'importe! as we said when I was Minister to Paris. Whoop-la is the cleanest cat on Manhattan Island. He licks each snowy paw till it's free from fleck or flaw."
"Ugh!" shuddered Laura. "How disgusting! Think of eating candy he'd touched with licked paws!"