Kirke, engaged in attaching a string to the neck of a speckled horned toad, answered coolly without looking up,—
“No; and I never said I could. Fortune-telling is not my trade.”
“What is your trade, you funny boy?” asked little Miss Weezy, suddenly appearing from the garden.
“Just at present I am in the harness business,” he returned, as he tied together the ends of the cord.
Yellow-haired Donald, on his hands and knees at his brother’s feet, watched the proceeding with deep interest, for this toad was to be his little pony.
“In the teasing business you mean, Kirke Rowe,” retorted Molly, tossing back her long auburn braid with some impatience. “You want me to think you don’t care what happens to The Merry Five.”
“Whisper it to me, Molly, please do!” implored Weezy, her dainty sea-shell ear close to her sister’s mouth. “I can keep a secret all to myself.”
“It’s not a secret,” cried Molly, waltzing the child down the veranda. “It’s not a secret, but Kirke needn’t listen.” And she chanted gayly at the top of her voice,—
“We’re going to Europe, to Europe, to Europe,
The Merry Five are going to Europe!”