When the Sturgis family, breathless, at last sorted
themselves out, every one began talking at once.
"_Don't_ you really think it's a nice place?"
"You came sooner than we expected; we meant to be at the gate."
"Oh, my dear dears!"
"_Mother_, come in now and see everything!" (This from Kirk, anxious to
exhibit what he himself had never seen.)
"Come and take your things off--oh, you _do_ look so well, dear."
"Look at the nice view!"
"Don't you think it looks like a real house, even if we did get it?"
"Oh, children _dear_! let me gather my poor scattered wits."
So Mrs. Sturgis was lovingly pulled and pushed and steered into the
dusky little living-room, where a few pieces of Westover Street
furniture greeted her strangely, and where a most jolly fire burned on
the hearth. Felicia removed her mother's hat; Ken put her into the big
chair and spirited away her bag. Mrs. Sturgis sat gazing about her--at
the white cheese-cloth curtains, the festive bunches of flowers in every
available jug, the kitchen chairs painted a decorative blue, and at the
three radiant faces of her children.
Kirk, who was plainly bursting with some plan, pulled his sister's
sleeve.
"Phil," he whispered loudly, "do you think now would be a good time to
do it!"
"What? _Oh_--yes! Yes, go ahead, to be sure," said Felicia.
Kirk galloped forthwith to the melodeon, which Mrs. Sturgis had so far
failed to identify as a musical instrument, seated himself before it,
and opened it with a bang.
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