Three small
girls were making themselves busy with holly and ivy, with badly cut
paper flowers, with enormous texts coarsely illustrated, to render the
home gay and festive in its greeting. A little worn old woman lay on a
sofa and superintended these active measures.
"How soon will she be here now?" said Hattie the vigorous.
"Do stay still, Hattie, and don't fidget. Don't you see how tired Aunt
Raby looks?" exclaimed Rose. "Prissie can't be here yet, and you are
such a worry when you jump up and down like that, Hattie."
Rose's words were quite severe, and Hattie planted herself on the edge
of a chair, folded her plump hands, managed to get a demure look into
her laughing eyes and dimpled mouth and sat motionless for about half
a minute. At the end of that time she tumbled on the floor with a loud
crash and Aunt Raby sprang to her feet with some alarm.
"Good gracious, child! are you hurt? What's the matter?"
Hattie was sitting on the floor in convulsions of mirth.
"I'm not hurt," she exclaimed. "I slipped off the chair. I didn't mean
to; I couldn't help it, really. I'm sorry I woke you, Aunt Raby."
"I wasn't asleep, child." Miss Peel walked across the room and
vanished into the kitchen, from which very savory smells issued.
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