"Miss Marjorie is good help."
"So am I," said Prue, hopping into the dining-room and amusing herself by stepping from one green pattern in the carpet to another green one, and then from one red to another red one, and then, as her summons did not come, from a green to a red and a red to a green, and still Aunt Prue did not call her. Then she went back to Deborah, who was making lemon jelly, at one of the kitchen tables, in a great yellow bowl. She told Prue that some of it was to go to a lady in consumption, and some to a little boy who had a hump on his back. Prue said that she would take it to the little boy, because she had never seen a hump on a boy's back; she had seen it on camels in a picture.
Still Aunt Prue did not come for her, and she counted thirty-five bells on the arbutilon, and four buds on the monthly rose, and pulled off three drooping daisies that Deborah had not attended to, and then listened, and "Prue! Prue!" did not come.
Aunt Prue and Marjorie must be talking "secrets."
"Deborah," standing beside her and looking seriously up into the kindly, wrinkled face, "I wish you knew some secrets."
"La! child, I know too many."
"Will you tell me one. Just one. I never heard a secret in my life.
Marjorie knows one, and she's telling Aunt Prue now."
"Secrets are not for little girls."
"I would never, never tell," promised Prue, coaxingly.
"Not even me!" cried Marjorie behind her. "Now come upstairs with me and see Morris' mother. Aunt Prue is not ready for you yet awhile."