"—to the soles of her feet."
"Cloth slippers, you mean."
Helen's eyes tried not to twinkle. "She's as much better than I am as—as—you can think," she ended, lamely.
The Arabs laughed in derisive chorus.
"But, honest, Helen, it's goin' to be so lonesome an' poky!" Molly wailed over her empty saucer. "We sha'n't have a speck of fun till you come home again."
"A whole year!"
"Twelve months. Four times twelve's forty-eight. Forty-eight times seven's—"
"Three hundred 'n' sixty-five!" concluded Roy, scornfully. Roy was in the grammar grade, and was regarded as an oracle in arithmetic.
The baby woke up and lifted her voice hungrily, and Helen ran away to her. The busy afternoon followed the busy morning on swift wings, and it was almost supper-time before she could sit down and think a minute. Then she held Uncle 'Gene's letter in her lap and thought about that. "Let her come soon," it said, "and stay anyway a year. She has real musical talent, and Bab's Professor Grafmann will develop it if anybody can. He's a genius. Besides, we all want her, and the child must need a breathing-spell after trying so long to tame those wild Arabs. Yon can surely find somebody else to tutor them."
Yes, oh yes, there was Mahala! She was all engaged to come and do it. She was good-hearted and strong. She would be sure to treat them all well and take splendid care of Motherdie. Helen rocked back and forth contentedly. They wanted her to go—father and mother, and the Arabs would soon get used to doing without her. Dear little Arabs! She looked down at the smallest one of them, still trying to stand the clothes-pins round the edge of the big bright pan. She was improving steadily.