"So are you, too," you added kindly to Lizbeth, who was all in white and curls.
Then you drew a little chair beside Father's and sat, quiet and very straight, with your legs crossed carelessly like his and an open book like his in your lap. And when Father changed his legs, you changed your legs, too. Lizbeth looked at you two awhile awesomely. Then she brought her little red chair and sat beside you with the Aladdin book on her lap, but she did not cross her legs. And so you sat there, all three, clean and dressed-up and beautiful, by the bay-window, while the sun lay warm and golden on the library rug, and sweeter and sweeter grew the kitchen smells.
Then dinner came, and the last of it was best because it was sweetest, and if Company were not there you cried:
"It's going to be pie to-day, isn't it, Mother?"
But Mother would only smile mysteriously while the roast was carried away. Then Lizbeth guessed.
"It's pudding," she said.
"No, pie," you cried again, "'cause yesterday was pudding."
"Now, Father, you guess," said Lizbeth.
"I guess?"
"Yes, Father."