“Daddy doesn’t work on Sunday,” she said. “Is he out of order?”
Polly was about to explain, when the little one wailed out, “I want my daddy! I want to see my daddy!” It was the first time she had shown any sign of homesickness.
For a moment Polly was at a loss for comforting words. She well knew that it would be a hard matter to persuade Mr. Wheatley to come up to the house. She was spared from speaking, however, for Clementina and Benedicta walked in.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the latter.
“I want--my daddy!--I want--my--dad-dy!” sobbed Rosalind.
“You poor little kid!” crooned Benedicta. And gently pushing Polly aside she sat on the edge of the bed and held the child close. “Poor little kid!”
“Now, see here!” began Benedicta in a coaxing tone, “you just be a good girl and stop crying, and pretty soon we’ll have a regular superbondonjical time.”
“I don’t know what kind of a time that is--I guess I never had one.” The mite was interested at once.
“Oh, it’s lovely, amazin’ly lovely, a superbondonjical time is!” The voice was inspiring.
Rosalind smiled. “Will we have it now?” she asked.
“Just as soon as I can get it ready; I guess about the time you’ll sit up to your little table in your little chair.”
This was a wonderfully satisfying answer, and Rosalind closed her eyes with a breath of content. She was constantly looking forward to ten o’clock in the morning and six o’clock in the afternoon, those being the hours when she was taken up for a short time and allowed to sit in the small chair that “daddy” had made for her and to eat her luncheon or supper upon the pretty table which Grandpa Wheatley had fashioned to match the chair.
Benedicta held her a moment longer and then laid her tenderly upon her pillow.
The child opened her eyes and gazed up into the kind, homely face.
“You look like daddy,” she said thoughtfully.
The housekeeper drew back with a start. “I--I must go see to--”
Nobody found out just what she was going to “see to,” for she was gone.
Soon a sweet, spicy odor floated into the ward, which caused the little folks to sniff delightedly and to wonder among themselves what was in store for them.
It was not long before Benedicta and the “superbondonjical” luncheon came in. On the tray were freshly baked oatmeal macaroons, little cooky girls with wide skirts, and glasses of creamy milk.