I picked it up, and holding it close to me, I flew.
I am now in bed and rather chilley. Mother banged at the door some time ago, and at last went away, mutering.
I am afraid she is going to be petish.
January 22nd. Father came home this morning, and things are looking up. Mother of course tackeled him first thing, and when he came upstairs I expected an awful time. But my father is a reel Person, so he only sat down on the bed, and said:
“Well, chicken, so you’re at it again!”
I had to smile, although my chin shook.
“You’d better turn me out and forget me,” I said. “I was born for Trouble. My advice to the Familey is to get out from under. That’s all.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “It’s pretty conveniant to have a Familey to drop on when the slump comes.” He thumped himself on the chest. “A hundred and eighty pounds,” he observed, “just intended for little daughters to fall back on when other things fail.”
“Father,” I inquired, putting my hand in his, because I had been bearing my burdens alone, and my strength was failing: “do you beleive in Love?”
“Do I!”