Helen smiled in her sleeve, and laid the little discussion away in her memory for "Motherdie's" delectation. The older boys arrived, and dinner was presently in animated progress, though everybody tried to keep still—and didn't. As by magic the sweet-potatoes vanished under the eager forks and spoons, and the creamy rice followed rapid suit. The Arabs were a hearty little tribe. Nothing pleased Helen more than to have them appreciate her cooking. She sighed a little now over the thought that perhaps Mahala would scorch the rice after she was gone.
"Well, I dread her!" suddenly exclaimed Roy, as if in answer to Helen's sigh.
"Who?" asked Archie, between mouthfuls.
"Mahala. She'll scold us like sixty-nine when we make tracks over her floors, and Helen never does."
"She'll wear hoops," said Molly, holding her little silver fork in reflective suspension.
"And make-b'lieve bangs."
"And cloth slippers, with 'lastics criss-cross over her ankles."
"And white stockings!"
Helen contracted her eyebrows sternly. "Stop, children!" she chided. "Mahala's a good woman from the top of her head—"
"Make-b'lieve bangs," murmured irrepressible Archie.