“I tell you, Flaxie,” confided he to his cousin afterward, “I never liked Mr. Lee half so well; never dreamed he was so bright and sharp. He likes fun as well as we boys. Only somehow—Well, I wouldn’t do it again; it was foolish. See here, Flaxie, have you put this in your journal? Well, don’t you now! If the boys should find out—”
“What do you mean about my journal?” returned Mary, drawing up her mouth like the silk “work-pocket,” to mark her displeasure. “Anybody’d think my journal was a newspaper.”
Fred smiled wisely.
CHAPTER V.
CHINESE BABIES.
The journal was a pretty little red book, which lay sometimes on the piano, sometimes on the centre-table, and was often opened innocently enough by callers. If it had been the simple, matter-of-fact little book that it ought to have been, the reading of it would have done no harm. But Mary had a habit of recording her emotions, also her opinions of her friends,—a bad habit, which she did not break off till it had nearly brought her into trouble.
“What does Fred Allen mean by calling me ‘Miss Fanny dear, with mouth stretched from ear to ear’?” asked Fanny Townsend, indignantly.
“How do you know he did?”
“Saw it in your journal. And you put a period after ‘Miss’! Needn’t accuse me of laughing, Flaxie Frizzle, when I happen to know that my mother considers you a great giggler, and dreads to have you come to our house.”