There was a mandolin, picked up at some Eastern sale, a
warming-pan in shining brass from her mother's attic, two old samplers
worked in faded silks, and a quantity of gayly tinted Japanese fans and
embroideries. She had also begged from an old aunt at Beverly Farms a
couple of droll little armchairs in white painted wood, with covers of
antique needle-work. One had "Chit" embroidered on the middle of its
cushion; the other, "Chat." These stood suggestively at the corners of
the hearth.
"Now, Katy," said Rose, seating herself in "Chit," "pull up 'Chat' and
let us begin."
So they did begin, and went on, interrupted only by Baby Rose's coos and
splutters, till the dusk fell, till appetizing smells floated through
from the rear of the house, and the click of a latch-key announced Mr.
Browne, come home just in time for dinner.
The two days' visit went only too quickly. There is nothing more
fascinating to a girl than the menage of a young couple of her own age.
It is a sort of playing at real life without the cares and the sense of
responsibility that real life is sure to bring. Rose was an adventurous
housekeeper. She was still new to the position, she found it very
entertaining, and she delighted in experiments of all sorts. If they
turned out well, it was good fun; if not, that was funnier still! Her
husband, for all his serious manner, had a real boy's love of a lark,
and he aided and abetted her in all sorts of whimsical devices. They
owned a dog who was only less dear than the baby, a cat only less dear
than the dog, a parrot whose education required constant supervision,
and a hutch of ring-doves whose melancholy little "whuddering" coos were
the delight of Rose the less.
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