Thekla laughed, but was too wise, and too tender of Max’s feelings, to say, “I told you so,” as some little girls would have done. She only put aside her work, and made haste with the supper, that all might be tidy and in order for the coming guest.
The evenings were still cool enough to make a fire comfortable, and the hearth glowed bright as in winter. But the casement stood open; and, one on each side, the children perched themselves to wait for June. She arrived promptly, the pink sunset glowing behind her figure, as it issued, all clothed in white, from the leafy woods. Max and Thekla flew to meet her. On her head was a wreath of flowering hawthorn. She held up the skirt of her gown filled with strawberries.
“Put in a thumb, and pull out something nice,” she said merrily, as she saw them coming.
Both thumbs and fingers were soon red as cherries; for all the time June told her tale they kept going in and out of the fragrant, fascinating lap, and conveying red, delicious mouthfuls to the little lips dyed deep with juicy stains. It was wonderful how the children took to June. It seemed as if they could not get close enough. They lay on her lap, put their arms about her neck, kissed and played with her hands, were not one bit afraid of her;—and she evidently was used to and liked it, for she only smiled when they did so. This was her story:—
“Last year I had to take a long ride over the Desert, and it was extremely hot. So, as soon as was possible I came away, and went to a place among the hills, to cool off. A very nice, old-fashioned, little place it is. People from the city go there in the summer; and this time, as it happened, they were earlier than usual.
“I love children very much, so I soon got acquainted with all in the village. There were ever so many of them. Some, in fine ruffled frocks, were thin and white, and had blue circles round their eyes. That was because they had been taken to parties in the winter till they were almost dead. And some were all worried out with going to school, and had round shoulders and tired faces. And a few were dear natural little boys and girls, with lips and cheeks the right color, and plenty of clean common clothes to romp in. I loved all of them, and they me; but these last loved me best. We used to spend whole days out-doors together, playing ‘I spy’ and ‘hide-and-seek’ in the bushes. As a general thing, they were pretty good. There was an Anna Maria, to be sure, who slapped her little sister now and then; and one boy named Johnny who would climb trees after the robins’ nests: so that I was forced at last to push him off a bough and sprain his ankle, to make him let them alone. But, on the whole, I was well satisfied with them. And my prime favorite—the roundest, jolliest, nicest, prettiest of all—was little Dotty Dexter.
“Dotty was six years old, the dearest, cunningest mite of a romp you ever saw, and at the same time a born housewife. All her life it had been so. When two years old, she used to take her small apron and trot round the nursery rubbing the furniture clean, as she had seen nurse do. She could only reach to the seats of the chairs, and about half way up the legs of the tables; but so far she always made them shine till you could almost see your face in them.
“Dotty had an admirer. He was one year older than she, and his name was Willy Pringle. She loved him very much, partly because he had a jacket with two pockets, and gilt buttons down the front, and partly because when his mamma gave him any gum-drops he always brought her half of them to suck. So when he asked, ‘Would she be his little wife?’ she said she would.
“Down the village street stood a queer little house, which nobody lived in. Once it had been painted brown; but the paint had rubbed off, and now it was all yellow and spotty. The door wasn’t locked, because doors never were locked in that place; and one day Willy and Dotty opened it, and strayed in to take a look.
“It was a most beautiful house. There was a hall, with an upstairs and a downstairs to it. The upstairs went to the bed-rooms, and the downstairs to the cellar. There were two rooms,—a parlor and a kitchen; and two bedrooms, and the cellar: that made five. There was a stove in the kitchen, with real holes in the top, and a pipe. It was rather rusty, but a delightful stove notwithstanding. In the parlor was a chair and a stool and another chair, all three quite ragged; and upstairs, on one of the window-sills, stood a long row of bottles. ‘Hair Dye’ was written on the outside of them; and they smelt dusty, when you put them to your nose. That was all the furniture; except some pieces of plaster, which had fallen down from the ceiling.