Marjorie's Vacation Part 15

CHAPTER XI

THE DUNNS

"Marjorie," said Mrs. Sherwood, one morning, "do you know where Mrs.

Dunn lives?"

"Yes, Grandma; down the river-road, toward the blacksmith's."

"Yes, that's right; and I wish you would go down there for me and carry a small basket. There isn't any one else I can send this morning and I have just heard that she is quite ill."

"They're awfully poor people, aren't they? Are you sending them something nice?"

"Yes; some food. Mrs. Dunn scalded her hands severely last night, and I fear she will not be able to work for several days. So if you will carry them these things for their dinner, I will try to get down there myself this afternoon."

"Of course I will, Grandma; I'm glad to help the poor people. May I ask Molly to go with me?"

"Why, yes; I don't care. If there are two of you, you can carry more things. Run over after her, and I'll have the baskets ready by the time you get back."

With a hop and a skip, Marjorie took the shortcut across the fields to Molly's house. It was a beautiful summer morning, and Marjorie didn't stop more than half a dozen times, to watch the crows or the bees or the clouds or a hop-toad.

She captured Molly, and after waiting for that dishevelled young person to scramble into a clean frock, the two girls hopped and skipped back again.

Marjorie was somewhat inexperienced in the practical matters of charity, and looked with surprise at the large quant.i.ty of substantial viands.

"There is a large family of the Dunns," observed Grandma, "and they're all blessed with healthy appet.i.tes. These things won't go to waste."

"Are there children?" asked Marjorie.

"Yes, indeed, four of them. You must see how Mrs. Dunn is and find out if she's badly hurt. Ask her what she wants especially, and tell her I am coming this afternoon, and I'll carry it to her."

The girls trotted away with the well-filled baskets, and Grandma Sherwood looked after them a little uncertainly, as she saw how preoccupied they were in their own conversation, and remembered how careless Marjorie was, and how p.r.o.ne to mischief.

"Thim scalawags'll be afther havin' a picnic wid thim baskets,"

prophesied Eliza, as she too watched the children's departure.

Grandma Sherwood laughed. "I hardly think they'll do that," she said; "but they're liable to set down the baskets, and go hunting for wild flowers or something, and never think of their errand again."

But, on the contrary, the children were quite interested in their mission.

"Your grandma is an awful good woman," observed Molly.

"Yes, she is," agreed Marjorie; "it's lovely of her to send all these good things to poor people. It must be awful to be so poor that you don't have enough to eat!"

"Yes, but it must be lovely when the baskets come in."

"But they don't always come in," said Marjorie.

"They must," declared Molly, with an air of conviction; "if they didn't, the poor people would have nothing to eat, and then they would die; and you know yourself, we never hear of anybody dying of starvation around here."

"No; not around here, maybe. But in China they drop off by millions, just from starvation."

"Well, they wouldn't if your grandmother was there. She'd send baskets to every one of them."

"I believe she would," said Marjorie, laughing; "she'd manage it somehow."

By this time they had reached the Dunns' domain. At least they had come to a broken-down gate in a tumble-down fence, which Marjorie knew was the portal of their destination. In their endeavors to open the rickety gate the girls pushed it over, and nearly fell over, themselves.

But carefully holding their baskets they climbed over the pile of fallen pickets and followed the gra.s.s-grown path to the house.

And a forlorn enough house it was. Everything about it betokened not only poverty but s.h.i.+ftlessness. Marjorie was not experienced enough to know how often the former is the result of the latter, and her heart was full of pity for people who must live in such comfortless surroundings. The little old cottage was unpainted, and the front porch was in such a dilapidated condition that one step was entirely missing and several floor-boards were gone.

"It's like walking a tight-rope," said Marjorie, as she picked her way carefully along what she hoped was a sound plank. "But it's rather exciting. I wonder if we can get in."

There was no bell, and she tapped loudly on the door.

Almost instantly it was opened by a child whose appearance almost made Marjorie scream out with laughter.

A little girl of about ten, dressed in a bright pink skirt and a bright blue waist, stood before them. This startling color combination was enhanced by a red sash, which, though faded in streaks, was wide and tied at the back in a voluminous bow. The girl's naturally straight hair had apparently been urged by artificial means to curl in ringlets, but only a part of it had succ.u.mbed to the hot iron. The rest fairly bristled in its stiff straightness, and the whole mop was tied up with a large bow of red ribbon.

This rainbow-hued specimen of humanity opened the door with a flourish and bowed to the visitors with an air of extreme elegance.

Marjorie looked at her in astonishment. The gorgeous trappings and the formal demeanor of the child made her think she must have mistaken the house.

"Is this Mrs. Dunn's house?" she inquired, with some hesitation.

"Yes; I'm Miss Dunn," said the child, with such a ridiculous air of affectation that Molly giggled outright.

"Yes," Miss Dunn went on, "I am the eldest daughter. My name is Ella.

They call me the Elegant Ella, but I don't mind."

"I am Marjorie Maynard and Mrs. Sherwood is my grandmother. She heard your mother was ill and she sent her these baskets."

"How kind of her!" exclaimed the Elegant Ella, clasping her hands and rolling up her eyes. "Won't you come in?"

As Marjorie and Molly had been with difficulty balancing themselves on the broken boards of the porch, they were glad to accept the invitation.

Their first glance at the interior of the cottage showed that the rest of the family and the ways of the house did not at all harmonize with the manner and appearance of the eldest daughter.

Everything was of the poorest, and there was no attempt at order or thrift.

Mrs. Dunn sat in a rockerless rocking-chair, her left hand wrapped in bandages and her right hand holding a book which she was reading.

As the girls entered she threw the book on the floor and smiled at them pleasantly.

"Walk right in," she said, "and take seats if you can find any. Hoopsy Topsy, get off that chair this minute and give it to the ladies! Dibbs, you lift Plumpy out of the other one, quick! There! Now you girls set down and rest yourselves! Did you bring them baskets for us? Lawsee!