"How did you get so wise, old Solomon?" asked Dum, in rather muffled tones through a mouthful of flannel cakes.
"Why, Mammy Susan says, 'Men folks an' mules is moughty sim'lar; jes' nachally contrary-wise. Ef yer want 'em ter go ter de mill, make out dey's got ter stay in de parsture, an' jes' ter spite yer dey'll run all de way ter de mill.'"
"Well, we'll make out Zebedee has got to go to the mill and he'll want to stay in the pasture. Mabel Binks is more like a mill than a pasture," said Dum, rather taken with my philosophy.
"Yes, and 'All is grist that comes to her mill,' too," declared Dee. "I am going to try the plan on Zebedee this minute," and she bounced up and donning slippers and kimono went in to the living room where Mr. Tucker was deep in the Sunday paper. She left the door slightly ajar and Dum and I could plainly hear the conversation.
"Good morning, Zebedee," and the sound of a hearty kiss. "It was awfully good of you to have breakfast sent up to us. We did not mean to oversleep."
"Glad to do it, Tweedledeedles. I thought all of you would be tired after tripping the light fantastic toe almost into Sunday morning."
"Say, Zebedee, Page has to go to her Cousin Park's to dinner to-day, so don't you think it would be nice to have Mabel Binks to dinner with us?"
Dum gasped and started to rush into the sitting room, without the formality of a kimono, but I grabbed her and with a warning finger quieted her.
"Oh, come now, Dee, I should think you and Dum would be content to spend your last Sunday at home quietly with your poor old lonesome Zebedee. I can't see what you want with Miss Binks. She is much older than you, Tweedles, and not a bit the kind of person I should encourage you to have as an intimate. I get the names of your schoolmates mixed, but wasn't she the girl you wrote me was so purse-proud and unfeeling in her treatment of that nice ladylike little girl from Price's Landing?"
"Ye—s, but I thought you liked her pretty well last night."