“And she had a little boy who was not very ill,
And he went to bed, and he lies there still.”
“Why, Preston Gray, did you make that all up yourself?” cried Flaxie, amazed at his genius.
But there was no time for more poetry, even if Preston had been able to make it, for they were standing now at the door. It was an old, tumble-down house. The children called it black, and in fact it was a sort of slate-color, though it had never been painted at all, except by the sun, wind, and rain. In the road before it three dirty children were poking sand, and they looked so shabby that Milly whispered:
“I shouldn’t think they’d be called Proudfits: they don’t look very proud!”
“No,” replied Preston, trying to be witty, “the name doesn’t fit.”
Mrs. Proudfit was changing Sammy’s pillow-cases when she heard the children knock, and came to the door with a pillow between her teeth. She was “proper glad of the jelly,” as Preston thought she ought to be.
There was a smell of hot gingerbread in the air, which reminded Flaxie of the time ever so long ago, when she had taken supper in that house without leave; and there was Patty at the window this minute making faces. It is strange how things change to you as you grow older! Flaxie never cared to visit at that house now, for Patty wasn’t a nice little girl at all; she not only teased away your playthings, but told wrong stories.
“Our baby’s two months old, and he’s got two teeth!” cried she, as Flaxie turned away; but nobody believed her.
The twin cousins and their little friends had a gay time that afternoon on the bank, and Christie Gretchen “received” with great dignity; but I have no time to talk of that now, I want to tell you something about Preston.
When they reached Mr. Garland’s house, the little girls left him, and he walked up the gravel path to Mr. Garland’s front door and rang the bell with a sober face.