"That is so, Uncle, isn't it? From half-past eight to six—how many hours is that?"
"Nine and one-half hours."
"Oh, dear, me! Well, if you and Father can stand it all that time, I ought to be able to stay away during school hours."
"In wet weather, of course, Tom will drive you to and from school, but on fine days you must be out of doors as much as possible. Then your appetite will improve, and you will grow strong, and those rosy cheeks which you brought from the seashore, but have since lost, will return. I fear that you are taking the babies too seriously. Remember, dear, you are not much more than a baby yourself."
"Why, Father! I am seven whole years and three whole months old!"
"Add three or four days and you will have it exactly. But in spite of all these years, months, and days, you are our little Mary and will still be so when you are twice seven and even three times seven years old."
"Twice seven is the same as seven twos, and three times seven is seven threes—then I shall have to fast. Surely, by that time, Father, you can't call me little. No one could call you and Uncle little, and I s'pose you are about twenty-one."
"You will have to add many years to seven threes for my age. Make it between seven fives and sixes, and Uncle's something more than seven fours."
"'M, 'm,—then how many sevens is Mr. Conway, Father? He looks almost as old as Santa Claus."
"He was seven times eleven years old last month."