Friday evening,
on her way from school, she stopped at a grocery where she knew
Eileen kept an account, and for the first time ordered a few
groceries. These she carried home with her, and explained to
Katy what she wanted.
Katy fully realized that Linda was still her child, with no
thought in her mind save standing at the head of her classes,
carrying on the work she had begun with her father, keeping up
her nature study, and getting the best time she could out of life
in the open as she had been taught to do from her cradle.
Katy had not the slightest intention of opening her lips to say
one word that might put any idea into the head of her beloved
child, but she saw no reason why she herself should not harbor
all the ideas she pleased.
Whereupon, actuated by a combination of family pride, love,
ambition in her chosen profession, Katy made ready to see that on
the morrow the son of Frederick Whiting should be properly
nourished on his outing with Linda.
At six o'clock Saturday morning Linda ran the Bear Cat to the
back door, where she and Katy packed it. Before they had
finished, Donald Whiting came down the sidewalk, his cheeks
flushed with the exercise of walking, his eyes bright with
anticipation, his cause forever won--in case he had a cause--with
Katy, because she liked the wholesome, hearty manner in which he
greeted Linda, and she was dumbfounded when he held out his hand
to her and said laughingly: "Blessed among women, did you put in
a fine large consignment of orange punch?"
"No," said Katy, "I'll just tell ye flat-footed there ain't going
to be any punch, but, young sir, you're eshcortin' a very capable
young lady, and don't ye bewail the punch, because ye might be
complimenting your face with something ye would like a hape
better.
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