“Well, what next, Molly?”
“And the chest had a spring-lock.”
“Oh! I see.”
“Yes, the springiest kind of a spring-lock; and the poor little bride was no sooner inside the chest than the lid snapped down on her. There she had to stay; and she wasn’t found for a hundred years?”
“A hundred years!” echoed Weezy, in dismay. “O Molly! didn’t she have anything to eat for a whole hundred years?”
“I guess she didn’t want anything to eat, Weezy,” said Kirke, with a sly wink at Molly. “Not toward the last of it, anyway. I guess she had lost her appetite.”
“O Kirke! you wretched boy,” said Molly.
But Kirke’s shocking sarcasm had been quite lost on Weezy. She had picked up a box-cover from the floor, and was fanning Donald as he lay across his mother’s lap. “Did you think that was a truly, truly little bed, Donald?”
Donald nodded drowsily.
“Babies shouldn’t go to sleep in trunks. Oh, you droll, droll little brother!”