“Yes; either Pussy Wants a Corner, or Blindman’s Buff,” replied Lora, leading the way to the scene of festivity.
For a time mirth and jollity ruled the hour, the older people joining in the sports of the young, with the double motive of watching over them and adding to their enjoyment; then light refreshments were partaken of. After that the servants were called in, and the head of the family read aloud a short Psalm, offered a brief prayer, giving thanks for the blessings of life and the pleasures of the past day, and asking for the protecting care during the silent watches of the night, of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps.
Then the good-nights were spoken, and all scattered to their rooms.
The little ones were carried off by Mrs. Dinsmore and their nurses; the five young girls retreated to the suite of rooms set apart to their use, and the lads—seven in number—trooped up the broad stairway leading to the second story.
“You and I are to be bed-fellows, Max, and to share the same room with Art and Walter Howard,” said Frank Dinsmore. “You see we have to crowd a little—there being such a lot of us—but it’ll be all the jollier, don’t you think, boys?”
He had led the way, as he spoke, into a most inviting-looking room, large enough to seem far from crowded, even with the two double beds filling opposite corners.
“Yes, yes, indeed!” the others responded, in chorus, Art adding: “The more the merrier, and we’ll have no end of a good time, if I’m not mightily mistaken.”
A door of communication with another room stood wide open, and through it they could see the three older lads, gathered about a blazing wood fire.
“Walk in, boys,” called Chester, addressing Max and his companions, as he saw them sending curious glances in that direction.
“We’re expected to go to bed, aren’t we?” queried Max in reply, coming in last, and speaking with some hesitation.