“Oh, not yet, mother,” said Dorothea the Dawdler. “It only takes me fifteen minutes.”
“Now, see here,” said Jim; “what do you suppose stirring young business-men like your father and brother are lingering until the nine o’clock train for, unless it is to see you off for school? We want to give you as good a send-off as possible, for you’re going to be absent four whole hours, but we can’t,—unless you do your part and begin to go pretty soon. I don’t believe you’ve got all your books together, as it is.”
“‘lend me your pencils, won’t you, jim?’ said dorothea.”
“Yes, I have,” answered Dorothea triumphantly. “They are all on the hall table, for I put them there last night. Oh, gracious!” she exclaimed blankly: “I forgot to see whether I had any pencils! I don’t believe I have one! Jim, lend me yours, won’t you? Just for to-day.”
“Lend you my most cherished possession? Never!” said Jim, placing his hand dramatically over his breast pocket.
“Then, Daddy, won’t you please lend me yours?”
“Trot along, trot along!” said her father; and Dorothea, not knowing quite what to make of having her demands thus ignored, put on her big sailor hat and started to gather up her books. On top of the pile was a slender inlaid box under a card bearing the words, “For Dolly, from Father.” Pushing back the sliding cover, Dorothea saw that the box contained a row of pencils, all beautifully sharpened, a dozen pens, and a slim gunmetal penholder.
“Oh!” she squealed with delight. “So that’s why you wouldn’t lend me any pencils!” and gave her father a hug.
“Hurry up, now,” said Jim. “Don’t forget we’ve got to see ourselves off after we’ve seen you.”