“Oh, I guess I can; I’ll go ask grammy,” replied the little girl, dashing off up the hill, followed by Patty.
“Oh, grammy, they want me to stay orf’ly,” she cried, out of breath, before they got to the house.
“Well, stay another hour, then,” said the dear grandma, though baby was very cross and her arms ached, and Flaxie could have been such a help.
So Flaxie went back and stayed another hour, and then it wasn’t tea-time. She could see some blue and white dishes spread on a round table covered with an oil-cloth, and she could smell gingerbread baking in the oven, which made her very hungry; and just as Mrs. Proudfit was opening a can of preserves, with at least six children clinging to her skirts, who should come but Preston, to say it was half-past five and Flaxie was wanted at home.
“So you can’t stay to tea, after all,” said Mrs. Proudfit, putting a small covered dish on the table. What in the world could be in it?
Flaxie dropped her head and blushed. “Oh, yes’m, I can stay. I’ve sent Preston home, and locked the door!”
Mrs. Proudfit smiled into the oven as she looked at her gingerbread, and thought—of course she did—that Flaxie Frizzle was a very queer child.
It did seem as if that gingerbread never would bake! A cloud came up, the wind blew, the baby cried so Patty couldn’t play, the children quarrelled, and the kitten ran round in a fit.
Nothing seemed half as nice as it had seemed an hour ago; and when supper was ready, that gingerbread was burnt, and, as true as you live, the preserves were sour! There was nothing in the little covered dish but cheese, which Flaxie “despised;” and she wished she hadn’t stayed to tea, for it was a very poor tea indeed.
It began to rain just as hard as it could pour, and Dr. Papa came for her in the carriage, without a single smile on his face.