“How awfully good of you, uncle, to give a dinner for Stellan.”
“And of course, you would love to come,” muttered her guardian through the lather.
“Rather, as it is Stellan’s birthday. But there are to be only boys?”
“Yes, but we ought to have a hostess, even though it is a men’s dinner.”
Laura suddenly grew serious, terribly serious.
“Oh, but my old red frock is worn out, and besides the sleeves are too short.”
“But supposing you came to town with me one day and bought a new frock....”
Laura jumped up in his lap and kissed him in the middle of the lather:
“Oh, thank you, dear darling. But don’t tell Stellan and Herman!”
Thus it came about that when at last that birthday dinner came off and the boys had already been down to look at the sawmill and had been climbing in the shrouds of the old brigs and had been chatting with the jolly old tars—who should be standing on the front steps to receive them like an amiable hostess but Laura, dressed in a brand new silk frock, almost down to her ankles and full of bows and frills.