"Tell us all about it," continued Ester, following up her advantage.
"Nothing to tell, much, only all the folks are going a sail on the
lake this afternoon, and going to have a picnic in the grove, the very
last one before snow, and I meant to ask mother to let us go, only how
was I going to know that Mrs. Carleton would get sick and come away
down here after her before daylight; and I know she would have let
me go, too; and they're going to take things, a basketful each one of
'em--and they wanted me to bring little bits of pies, such as mother
bakes in little round tins, you know, plum pies, and she would have
made me some, I know; she always does; but now she's gone, and it's
all up, and I shall have to stay at home like I always do, just for
sick folks. It's mean, any how."
Ester smothered a laugh over this curious jumble, and asked a humble
question:
"Is there really nothing that would do for your basket but little bits
of plum pies?"
"No," Alfred explained, earnestly. "Because, you see, they've got
plenty of cake and such stuff; the girls bring that, and they do like
my pies, awfully. I most always take 'em. Mr. Hammond likes them,
too; he's going along to take care of us, and I shouldn't like to go
without the little pies, because they depend upon them.
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