An Unusual Evening
MABEL looked in dismay at Rosa Marie.
"Where do you s'pose your mother is?" she demanded.
It was useless, however, to question Rosa Marie. That stolid young
person was as uncommunicative as what Marjory called "the little
stuffed Indians in the Washington Museum." The Indians to whom Marjory
referred were made of wax. Rosa Marie seemed more like a little wooden
Indian. The countenance of little Anne Halliday changed with every
moment; but Rosa Marie's wore only one expression. Perhaps it had only
one to wear.
"I say," said Mabel, gently shaking her small brown charge by the
shoulders, "where does your mother usually go when she isn't home?"
A surprised grunt was the only response.
Rosa Marie, too suddenly released, sat heavily on the ground,
thoughtfully scratched up the surface and filled her lap with handfuls
of loose, unattractive earth.
"Goodness! What an untidy child!" cried Mabel, snatching her up and
shaking her, although Rosa Marie's weight made her youthful guardian
stagger. "I wanted your mother to see you clean, for once. Here, sit
on this stick of wood. I s'pose we'll just have to wait and wait until
somebody comes. Well, _sit_ in the sand if you want to. I'm tired of
picking you up."
Rosa Marie's home was in rather an attractive spot. The big, quiet lake
was smooth as glass, and every object along its picturesque bank was
mirrored faithfully in the quiet depths. The western sky was faintly
tinged with red. Against it the spires and tall roofs of the town stood
out sharply; but at this quiet hour they seemed very far away.
Mabel, seated on the wooden box that she had placed under the window,
leaned back against the house and clasped her hands about her knees,
while she gazed dreamily at the picture and listened with enjoyment to
the faint lap of the quiet water on the pebbled beach.
Both Mabel and Rosa Marie had had a busy day. Both had taken unusual
exercise. And now all the sights and sounds were soothing, soothing.
You can guess what happened. Both little girls fell asleep. Rosa Marie,
flat on her stomach, pillowed her head on her chubby arms. Mabel's
head, drooping slowly forward, grew heavier and heavier until finally
it touched her knees.
An hour later, the sleepy head had grown so very heavy that it pulled
Mabel right off the box and tumbled her over in a confused, astonished
heap on the ground.
"My goodness!" gasped Mabel, still on hands and knees. "Where am I,
anyway? Is this Saturday or Sunday? Why! It's all dark. This--this
isn't my room--why! why! I'm outdoors! How did I get outdoors?"
Mabel stood up, took a step forward, stumbled over Rosa Marie and went
down on all-fours.
"What's that!" gasped bewildered Mabel, groping with her hands. She
felt the rough black head, the plump body, the round legs, the bare
feet of her sleeping charge. Memory returned.
"Why! It's Rosa Marie, and we're waiting here by the lake for her
mother. It--ugh! It must be midnight!"
But it wasn't. It was just exactly twenty minutes after seven o'clock
but, with the autumn sun gone early to bed, it certainly seemed very
much later. The house was still deserted.
"I guess," said Mabel, feeling about in the dark for Rosa Marie's
fat hand, "we'd better go home--or some place. Come, Rosa Marie, wake
up. I'm going to take you home with me. Oh, _please_ wake up. There's
nobody here but us. It's way in the middle of the night and there might
be _any_thing in those awfully black bushes."
But Rosa Marie, deprived of her noontide nap, slumbered on. Mabel shook
her.
"Do hurry," pleaded frightened Mabel. "I don't like it here."
It was anything but an easy task for Mabel to drag the sleeping
child to her feet, but she did it. Rosa Marie, however, immediately
dropped to earth again. During the day she had seemed stiff; but now,
unfortunately, she proved most distressingly limber. She seemed, in
fact, to possess more than the usual number of joints, and discouraged
Mabel began to fear that each joint was reversible.
"Goodness!" breathed Mabel, when Rosa Marie's knees failed for the
seventh time, "it seems wicked to shake you _very_ hard, but I've got
to."
Even with vigorous and prolonged shakings it took time to get Rosa
Marie firmly established on her feet, and the children had walked more
than a block of the homeward way before Rosa Marie opened one blinking
eye under the street lamp.
If it had been difficult to make the uphill journey in broad daylight
with Rosa Marie wide awake and moderately willing, it was now a doubly
difficult matter with that young person half or three-quarters asleep
and most decidedly unwilling.
"I wish to goodness," grumbled Mabel, stumbling along in the dark,
"that I'd borrowed a real baby and not a heathen."
The longest journey has an end. The children reached Dandelion
Cottage at last. Mabel found the key, unlocked the door, tumbled Rosa
Marie, clothes and all, into the middle of the spare-room bed; waited
just long enough to make certain that the Indian baby slept; then,
reassured by gentle, half-breed snores, Mabel, still supposing the
time to be midnight, ran home, climbed into her own bed nearly an hour
earlier than usual and was soon sound asleep. Her mind was too full of
other matters to wonder why the front door was unlocked at so late an
hour.
Mrs. Bennett, dressing to go to a party, heard her daughter come in.
"How fortunate!" said she. "Now I shan't have to go to Jean's
and Marjory's and Bettie's to hunt for Mabel. She must be tired
to-night--she doesn't often go to bed so early."