“Well that wouldn’t hurt. I’d like to see him,” said Caro.
All this was so interesting she had come near forgetting her candle. Now she thought of it and told Marjorie about it. “Just think,” she added, “my own grandmother’s candlestick—when she was a little girl.”
“I think I’ll ask mamma to give me one,” Marjorie said.
“What did grandpa mean when he said he wanted me to be a candle? Do you know?”
“He meant you must be good, I ’spect,” Marjorie replied in an offhand manner as she picked some Spanish needles from her dress.
“Candles aren’t good; that’s silly,” said Caro scornfully.
“I don’t care, he meant something like that; you ask him.”
She did ask him that evening. It was just at twilight and Dr. Barrows was sealing a letter to his daughter when Caro seated herself on the arm of his chair. “Can I talk to you grandpa?” she asked; and as if he too wished to join in the conversation, Trolley, with one silent spring was on the study table, close to the president’s elbow.
“He’ll do for a paper weight, won’t he?” laughed Caro, as the cat gravely seated himself on the notes for to-morrow’s lecture. “And he can lick your stamps for you,” she added.
Her grandfather laughed a little at this bright idea. “Well Mischief,” he asked, “what do you wish to talk about?”