She was paying small heed to her own words. “That band really did straighten her teeth,” she was thinking. “I must remind Miss Frothingham to order some more of the little smocks; she doesn’t look half so well in the blue-jacket blouses. How like George she is growing!... What did you say, Merle?” she added, realizing that the child’s plaintive voice was lingering still in the air.
“I said that I would like my own family, too, on Christmas,” the child repeated, half-daring, half-uncertain.
“Ring the bell, dear,” her mother said from the newspaper.
“I wish I didn’t know what you were going to give me for Christmas, mother!”
“You what?”
“I wish I didn’t know what you were going to give me!”
Silence.
“For Christmas, you know?” Merle prompted. “I love your present. I love to have a little desk all my own. It’s just like Betty’s, too, only prettier. But I would drather have it a surprise, and run down Christmas morning to see what it was!”
“Don’t say ‘drather,’ dear.”
“Rather.” With a gold spoon, Merle made a river through her cream of wheat in the monogrammed gold bowl and watched the cream rivers flood together. “What interests you in the paper, mother?” she asked politely.