Apron-Strings | Page 8

the offending garment. "Here, motherkins! It's in need of mending."
Mrs. Milo tossed the vestment to the piano. "What has your work--your accounts and statements and stenography--what have they to do with the Rector's mending?" she demanded.
"Well, mother, I used to mend for the last minister."
"Oh, my daughter!" mourned Mrs. Milo.
"Ye-e-e-s, mother?"--fearful that the boys were at last discovered.
"Do you mean to say that you see no difference in mending for a single man? a young man? an utter stranger?"
Sue heaved a sigh of relief. "Mother darling," she protested fondly; "hardly a stranger."
"We'll not discuss it," said her mother gently; then taking a more judicial attitude, "Now, I'll speak to those boys."
Long experience had shown Sue Milo that there were times when it was best to put off the evil moment, since at any juncture something quite unforeseen--such as an unexpected arrival--might solve her difficulty. This was such an occasion. So with over-elaborate care, she proceeded to outline the forthcoming program of the morning. "You see, mother, we're to rehearse--choir and all. They'll march from the library, right across here----" She indicated the route of procession.
But long experience had taught Mrs. Milo that procrastination often robbed her of her best opportunities. She pointed a slender finger to the carpet in front of her. "The boys," she said more firmly.
One by one, Sue brought them forward--Bobbie in the lead, then the tow-headed boy; this to conceal the unfortunate state of Ikey and the war-like Clarence. "Here they are, mother!" she announced gaily. "Here are our fine little men!"
Neither cheerful air nor kindly adjective served to pacify Mrs. Milo's anger at sight of the four intruders. Her nostrils swelled. "What are you doing here?" she questioned, with a mildness contradicted by her look; "--against my strict orders."
Bobbie, the ever-ready, strove to answer, swallowed, paled, choked, and turned appealingly to Sue; while the remaining three, with upraised eyes, beseeched her like dumb things.
"Absolutely necessary, mother," declared Sue. She gave each boy a reassuring pat. "As I was saying, they march from the library, preceding the bride----"
But Mrs. Milo was not listening. There was that still white figure in the bay-window, observing the scene intently. She bestowed a pleasant nod upon the quartette. "You may go now, boys," she said cooingly; "I'll speak to you later."
Bobbie found his voice. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you!"--and took one long step churchward. The tow-headed boy moved with him.
This left unshielded the erstwhile contesting twain. Mrs. Milo's look seemed to fall upon them like a blow. "Oh! Oh!" she cried in horror, pointing.
As one, Ikey and Clarence began rubbing tell-tale streaks from their countenances with their rumpled cottas, and pressing down their upstanding hair.
"No! No-o-o!" cried Mrs. Milo. "That photograph! What are you doing with it?"
In sudden panic, Bobbie shifted the photograph from hand to hand; tried to force it into the hands of the tow-headed boy, then bent to consign it to the carpet.
Sue was beforehand. She caught the picture away from the small trembling hand, and smiled upon her mother. "Oh--I--I was just going to look at it," she explained. "Thank you, Bobbie.--Isn't it good of father! So natural, and--and----"
Mrs. Milo was not deceived. "Give it to me," she said coldly. And as Sue obeyed, "Now, go, boys. Dora, poor child, works so hard to keep this drawing-room looking well. We can't have you disarrange it. Come! Be prompt!"
Sue urged the four passageward. "They were just going, mother.--Don't touch the woodwork; use the door knob."
And now, when it seemed that even Ikey and Clarence might escape undetected, Mrs. Milo gave another cry. "Oh, what's the matter with those two?" she demanded.
There was no long term of orphanage life to quiet the young savage in Ikey. And with his much-prized voice, he was even accustomed to being listened to on more than musical occasions. Now he bolted forward, disregarding Sue's hand, which caught at him as he passed. "Missis," began the borrowed soloist, meeting Mrs. Milo's horrified gaze with undaunted eye, "Clarence, he is jealousy dat I sing so fine."
To argue with Sue, or to subdue her, that was one thing; to come to cases with Ikey was quite another. He had an unpleasant habit of threatening to betake himself out and away to his aunt, or to go on strike at such dramatic times as morning service. Therefore, it seemed safer now to ignore the question of torn and muddied cottas, and seize upon some other pretext for censure. "What kind of language is that?" questioned Mrs. Milo, gently chiding. "'He is jealousy'!"
"Yes, quaint, isn't it, mother?" broke in Sue. "Really quaint." And to Ikey, "Not jealousy--jealous."
Ikey bobbed. Before him, like a swathed candle, he upheld his sore finger.
"Please, Susan!" begged Mrs. Milo, with a look which made her daughter fall back apologetically. And to Ikey, "How did