“I think Flaxie and I will take a ride in the cars to-morrow,” said she. “I think we’ll go to Chicopee to see Mrs. Adams, who has some gold-fishes, and a parrot, and a canary. How would you like that, Flaxie?”
“Wouldn’t like it a tall, ’cause she isn’t my mamma,” sobbed the poor little girl. “And we couldn’t go to-morrow, ’cause to-morrow is Sunday.”
“Sunday? First I ever heard of it,” said Freddy. “To-day is Friday, I suppose you know?”
“Oh, Freddy, Freddy, I can’t bear that. It’s Saturday,” said Flaxie.
As she spoke, the tears poured down her cheeks in little streams, and she squeezed her eyelids together so tight that Freddy laughed, for he thought the day of the week was a funny thing to cry about.
“To-day isn’t Saturday,” said he. “If ’tis, what did I go to school for? Tell me that.”
“Oh, it is Saturday, Freddy Allen! Don’t I know what day I came here? I came Friday. Didn’t I hear Ninny and mamma talk about it, and don’t I know?” screamed the wretched child, hopping up and down, then falling, face downward, on the rug. “Oh, I can’t bear it; I can’t bear it! There, don’t anybody in this town know what day it is! Nobody knows it but me!”
This was funny enough to Freddy, but very painful to his mother, who knew the deep trouble at the little girl’s heart. Of course Flaxie didn’t care a bit what day of the week it was; she only felt so very unhappy that she could not endure the slightest contradiction.
Before another word had been spoken, she sprang up and flew out of the room. About two minutes afterward the front door slammed, and Freddy saw her dashing down street with her hat and cloak on, swinging her valise in one hand and her umbrella in the other.