Thus the energetic Bess.
“But the leaves are all wet,” objected Kittie. “Won’t they hurt the hay, Uncle?”
Mr. Percival smiled, and patted the eager brown head. “I guess they won’t spoil the whole mow,” he said. “But of course I can’t tell you any stories, because I’m going to toast my feet all the afternoon in the Den.”
Kittie saw a twinkle in his eye.
“Ah,” she said coaxingly, “you’re just teasing us. You’re going to come out where you can see to Tim and Ruel while they work, and then you’re going to climb up into the hay-mow and tell, while we make trimming—aren’t you, Uncle?”
“‘Aren’t you, Uncle?’” repeated Mr. Percival in a whimsical tone. “Why, if you’re such a very earnest little puss about it, I suppose—I must!”
It didn’t take long to prepare for the barn. Hooded and water-proofed, the girls ran across the little open space as fast as they could go, wagging in and out under a big umbrella, screaming and laughing, girl-fashion.
Tom and Randolph followed in more military style, double-quicking in fine order from porch to barn. The men were already there. In one of the broad bays on the ground level of the barn was a mow of new hay; and on the centre of this was deposited a huge heap of leaves, wet and shining, pretty material for busy fingers to transform into links and wreaths and festoons for Pet’s chamber.
Mr. Percival was soon made comfortable in a hay-nest especially hollowed out for him, and the rest seated themselves in a semi-circle before him. The boys were set to work at once, stripping off leaves.
“There,” said Bess, beginning to turn the stout stems and piercing the tough green tissue of the leaves, “this is really—”