The last good-by had been said, and the comfortable country carriage, drawn by its two glossy bay horses, had disappeared around a knoll.
“They is do’rn,” remarked the baby, as if just in possession of a solemn fact.
“Torse they is do’rn, you blessed baby,” answered Florence, his fifteen-year-old sister, stooping down and lifting him in her strong arms and kissing him.
The baby, let me remark, was a sturdy boy of four, with bright brown eyes and red cheeks—cheeks so plump that when you had a side view of his face you could only see the tip of his little pug nose.
“Well, if ever anybody has earned a holiday, they are father and mother,” said Cassie.
“Cassie, dear, your sentiment is better than your grammar,” laughed Rose, the eldest of the three sisters.
“Never you mind my grammar, Miss Eglantine. I mayn’t have much ‘book larnin’,’ but I’ve got a head on my shoulders, as father frequently remarks—which is a good thing, for I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the glass if I hadn’t—and besides, how could I do my hair up so neatly, (Cassie’s hair was the joke of the family) if I hadn’t? And now I’m going up-stairs to cry, and I’ll be down in three minutes to help with the dishes,” and the giddy girl flew into the house and disappeared.