"Not now," said Debby, hastily. "I want to look at the needle-books your mother made."
"It's pokey over there! But I'll humor you, because it is Christmas," laughed Annie.
So they dodged under elbows, and slipped between young men and their sweethearts, until they reached the other end of the room, where Debby admired pen-holders with spiders and mice on them, cushions representing the old lady who lived in a shoe, and needle-books made like wheelbarrows, wondering if there had been anything at the Centennial more beautiful than these. But when a group of girls claimed Annie's attention, she eagerly seized the opportunity to slip away and sit on the bench behind Mrs. Williams's table.
"Tired so soon?" inquired Mrs. Williams, kindly. "But why didn't your mother come?"
"She didn't have—I don't mean—I mean she didn't speak of coming," stammered Debby, with burning cheeks.
"Never mind," replied Mrs. Williams, "you will have a good time, I know; and you must be sure to ride home with us."
Soothed by her sympathetic words, Debby almost forgot her troubles, and sat watching the moving picture with great amusement, until she espied her brothers helping Mr. Williams pass the saucers of cream.
"Oh, I hope they wont be tempted to take any," she thought, her heart full of a wordless prayer for them. But her anxiety was soon relieved by seeing Sam forcing his way toward her with a plate of cream.
"He gave it to me for helping," he whispered; "but you take it. Jim ate his right up."
"Eat it yourself, Sammy," she said, drawing back the hand she had stretched out for it. "I don't care so very much about it, because I am older, you know."