The Meanest Trustee readjusted his eye-glasses and looked closer at the young woman before him. "Do you mean to say you paid for them out of your own wages?"
The nurse nodded.
"Then all I have to say is that I consider it an extremely idiotic performance which had better be stopped. Children should not be indulged."
And he went away muttering something about the poor always remaining poor with their foolish notions of throwing away money; and Margaret MacLean went back to the book of faery-tales. But as she was looking for the place Sandy grunted forth stubbornly:
"A'm no wantin' ony scones the nicht, so ye maun na fetch them."
And Peter piped out, "Trusterday, ain't it, Miss Peggie?"
"Yes, dear. Now shall we go on with the story?"
She had read to where the rat was demanding the passport when she recognized the President's step outside the door. In another moment he was standing beside her chair, looking at the book on her knee.
"Humph! faery-tales! Is that not very foolish? Don't you think, Miss Margaret, it would be more suitable to their condition in life if you should select—hmm—something like Pilgrim's Progress or Lives of the Saints and Martyrs? Something that would be a preparation—so to speak—for the future." He stood facing her now, his back to the children.
"Excuse me"—she was smiling up at him—"but I thought this was a better preparation."