Free Brentwood by Grace Livingston Hill Page A

to spoil us for living again when you’re gone.”
    “Gone!” said Marjorie with dismay in her voice. “Do you want me to go?”
    “No, not on yer life! But you’re not going to stick around these diggings. Not with the home you’ve been used to! You’ll be spreading your wings and flying away!” And he gave her a sudden quick look. “Say!” he added irreverently, “You look a lot like Betts, and yet you don’t. I could tell you apart already! You don’t look quite so frowsy as Betty, and you’ve got a cute little quirk in the corners of your mouth. Maybe Betty would look like that too if she hadn’t had to work so hard, and have such a lot of trouble.”
    “You’re sweet!” said Marjorie, and she suddenly reached up with a quick motion and kissed her new brother on his lean, hard, young cheek.
    He blinked and the color went up in a great wave, and receding, left it white, and his eyes shadowed and weary-looking.
    “Okay with me!” he said, grinning. “If that’s your line you better give warning next time. We don’t have much time for mush and sob-stuff!”
    Then he turned sharply away toward the window and she saw him brush his hand across his eyes and swallow hard.
    “Okay with me!” said Marjorie, trying to make her voice sound as much like his a minute before as she could. And suddenly he laughed.
    “You’re aw’right,” he said grudgingly.
    “Thanks awfully!” said Marjorie, trying to enter into his spirit. “But who is that coming in the door?”
    “That’s Bud,” said Ted, peering through the crack in the wall. “Hey, kid! Hush up there! Dad and Muth’s asleep! They’re sick and yer not ta make a noise! Come on out here an’ shut the door carefully.”
    A boy about ten came panting into the room, so out of breath he could scarcely articulate.
    “They—sent me—ta tell ya—!” he panted. “You gotta come right away an’ get the kids. Bonnie’s got a fever—an’ she—wouldn’t eat her cereal—an’ she is crying for Betty—an’ Sunny is yellin’ his head off!”
    “Good night!” said Ted. “Who told you that?”
    “Miss Baker! She said we’d haveta take ’em home. She said they couldn’t do—a thing with Sunny since Bonnie got sick. They said”—he was still puffing and panting from his run—“They said—they hadta—have the beds—fer the—little kids. They got too many—an’ ours gotta come home now.”
    “Okay, you come with me, kid. We’ll get ’em,” said Ted, “but I don’t know what we’ll do with ’em here. Gosh! Can you beat it?” He cast an apologetic eye at the new sister.
    “What is it?” she asked puzzled. “Who are they?”
    “The kids!” answered the brother in astonishment. “Didn’t you know about them?”
    “No!” said Marjorie. “Oh, I remember, Betty said something when I first came about taking the children somewhere, but I had forgotten about it. I didn’t realize there were more of us.”
    “Two besides Bud!” said Ted, lifting his chin and sighing. “I don’t know how we’re going to make the grade with any more sick folks.”
    Marjorie gave a little gasp of amazement and then her soft lips set firmly.
    “We’ll manage!” she said. “I’ll go with you to get them. I can carry one of them.”
    The boy Bud was standing now, gazing at her in a kind of distress.
    “Who’s that?” he spat out, pointing to Marjorie, his eyes wide with a kind of fear. “Where’s Betty? That’s not Betty.”
    “No,” said Ted, “she’s the new sister. Did you have any lunch, Bud?”
    “Naw. They wouldn’t give me any. They said I didn’t belong. They said I was too big to be there and I couldn’t come tamorra. And anyhow, I hate ’em. They kep’ tellin’ me I oughtta be in school.”
    “Well, don’t worry. You don’t havta go again. We’ve got a fire now.”
    “Gee! It feels good!” said the child, rubbing his red, cold hands together. “I’m gonta stand over the register. Say, gimme a little