Glen and Miss Ada were sitting in the tiny guest room, Glen with the inevitable fairy-tale book, and the teacher with her needlework, and the girl flushed hotly.
“Phemie, tell the gentleman that Glory has gone to bed.”
There was a wail from the house guest. “Oh, Glen, please, pretty please, lemme see him! I jes’ been pintly honin’ to see him, Glen! Seems like he was gone to Beulah-land for a solid month and I was plumb scared I wouldn’t never see him no mo’!”
“But, Glory, dear, the doctor said you were to go to sleep early!”
“I been honin’ to see him,” said the child again, and burst suddenly into tears.
“Dear, dear,” Miss Ada clucked, “she mustn’t do that! I don’t suppose a few moments, my dear— She could just put on the little wrapper I made her yesterday—it’s very warm, you know—” Ever since Mrs. Parker’s amazing call Miss Ada had undergone a sea change toward the Parker family. “I will take her down, if you wish.”
“I will take her myself.” Glen put on the pale pink flannel kimono and the pink felt slippers which were Glory’s chiefest new treasures, and carried her capably downstairs, greeting the caller coldly. “She can stay only a few moments. The doctor wants her to go to sleep very early.”
He advanced, before she could deposit her burden in the big chair, and took Glory in his arms where she snuggled down like a contented puppy. “Seems like hit was a plumb year....” she sighed.
“I won’t keep her very long,” he promised. Then he looked delightedly about the grave, quaint room. “Babe Jennings told me, or tried to, but she missed it. And which,” he addressed himself to Gloriana-Virginia, “is the Wishing Carpet?”
She pointed with a sallow and boney forefinger. “That thar, suh! Ain’t hit mighty sweet and sightly?”