"Gran's," she shouted; "it's been lost a mighty long time.
Now I'm goin' to wear it to my five-o'clock tea. It's a picter hat, same's
that lady had on to your house once--I seen her." She threw the old
nightcap over her hair, tied the ragged strings with an air, and soon, by
dint of pulling and hauling, had the table in the very center of the
apartment, the box securely under its most delicate and unreliable portion.
"There--my! ain't we fine, though!" She surveyed her work with great
delight, her hands on her hips. "Now, says I, for our ice cream an' cake,
with white on top, an' choc'late."
She gave a flirt of her ragged gown and darted here and there with her
elfish movements; and presently a cold potato, shivering in its skin, a
slice or two of hard, moldy bread, and some turnips and carrots, uncooked,
were set about the dirty table, with empty spools in between. "Them's the
flowers," she explained, as she put the last-mentioned articles in their
places. "Now it's all ready, except the choc'late." And waving an old tin
coffeepot, whose nose was a thing of the past, she filled it at the faucet
over the wooden sink, and put it down with a flourish at one end of the
table. "Now we're ready, an' I'm the beautiful lady up to your house--I
seen her, once when I was peekin' through the fence"--she nodded shrewdly,
her little eyes snapping--"her an' your sister.
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