The evenings of Sunday were always spent in repeating hymns to Papa and Aunt Izzie. This was fun, for they all took turns, and there was quite a scramble as to who should secure the favourites, such as “The west hath shut its gate of gold”, and “Go when the morning shineth”. On the whole, Sunday was a sweet and pleasant day, and the children thought so; but from its being so much quieter than other days, they always got up on Monday full of life and mischief, and ready to fizz over at any minute, like champagne bottles with the wires just cut.
This particular Monday was rainy, so there couldn’t be any out-door play, which was the usual vent for over-high spirits. The little ones, cooped up in the nursery all the afternoon, had grown perfectly riotous. Philly was not quite well, and had been taking medicine. The medicine was called Elixir Pro. It was a great favourite with Aunt Izzie, who kept a bottle of it always on hand. The bottle was large and black, with a paper label round its neck, and the children shuddered at the sight of it.
After Phil had stopped roaring and spluttering, and play had begun again, the dolls, as was only natural, were taken ill also, and so was “Pikery”, John’s little yellow chair, which she always pretended was a doll too. She kept an odd apron tied on his back, and generally took him to bed with her—not into bed, that would have been troublesome; but close by, tied to the bed-post. Now, as she told the others, Pikery was very sick indeed. He must have some medicine, just like Philly.
“Give him some water,” suggested Dorry.
“No,” said John decidedly, “it must be black and out of bottle, or it won’t do any good.”
After thinking a moment, she trotted quietly across the passage into Aunt Izzie’s room. Nobody was there, but John knew where the Elixir was kept—in the closet on the third shelf. She pulled one of the drawers out a little, climbed up, and reached it down. The children were enchanted when she marched back, the bottle in one hand, the cork in the other, and proceeded to pour a liberal dose on to Pikery’s wooden seat, which John called his lap.
“There! there! my poor boy,” she said, patting his shoulder—I mean his arm—“swallow it down; it’ll do you good.”
Just then Aunt Izzie came in, and to her dismay saw a long trickle of something dark and sticky running down on to the carpet. It was Pikery’s medicine, which he had refused to swallow.
“What is that?” she asked sharply.
“My baby is sick,” faltered John, displaying the guilty bottle.
Aunt Izzie rapped her over the head with a thimble, and told her that she was a very naughty child, whereupon Johnnie pouted, and cried a little. Aunt Izzie wiped up the slop, and taking away the Elixir, retired with it to her closet, saying that she “never knew anything like it—it was always so on Mondays.”
What further pranks were played in the nursery that day I cannot pretend to tell. But late in the afternoon a dreadful screaming was heard, and when people rushed from all parts of the house to see what was the matter, behold, the nursery door was locked, and nobody could get in. Aunt Izzie called through the keyhole to have it opened, but the roars were so loud that it was long before she could get an answer. At last Elsie, sobbing violently, explained that Dorry had locked the door, and now the key wouldn’t turn, and they couldn’t open it. Would they have to stay there always, and starve?
“Of course you won’t, you foolish child,” exclaimed Aunt Izzie. “Dear, dear, what on earth will come next? Stop crying, Elsie—do you hear me? You shall all be got out in a few minutes.”
And sure enough, the next thing came a rattling at the blinds, and there was Alexander, the hired man, standing outside on a tall ladder and nodding his head at the children. The little ones forgot their fright. They flew to open the window, and frisked and jumped about Alexander as he climbed in and unlocked the door. It struck them as being such a fine thing to be let out in this way, that Dorry began to rather plume himself for fastening them in.
But Aunt Izzie didn’t take this view of the case. She scolded them well, and declared they were troublesome children, who couldn’t be trusted one moment out of sight, and that she was more than half sorry she had promised to go to the lecture that evening. “How do I know,” she concluded, “that before I come home, you won’t have set the house on fire, or killed somebody?”
“Oh no, we won’t! No, we won’t!” whined the children, quite moved by this frightful picture. But, bless you, ten minutes afterwards they had forgotten all about it.
All this time Katy had been sitting on the ledge of the bookcase in the library, poring over a book. It was called Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered. The man who wrote it was an Italian, but somebody had turned the story into English. It was rather a queer book for a little girl to take a fancy to, but somehow Katy liked it very much. It told about knights, and ladies, and giants, and battles, and made her feel hot and cold by turns as she read, and as if she must rush at something, and shout, and strike blows. Katy was naturally fond of reading. Papa encouraged it. He kept a few books locked up, and then turned her loose in the library. She read all sorts of things; travels, and sermons, and old magazines. Nothing was so dull that she couldn’t get through with it. Anything really interesting absorbed her so that she never knew what was going on about her. The little girls to whose houses she went visiting had found this out, and always hid away their storybooks, when she was expected to tea. If they didn’t do this, she was sure to pick one up and plunge in, and then it was no use to call her or tug at her dress, for she neither saw nor heard anything more till it was time to go home.
This afternoon she read the Jerusalem till it was too dark to see any more. On her way upstairs she met Aunt Izzie, with bonnet and shawl on.
“Where have you been?” she said. “I have been calling you for the last half-hour.”
“I didn’t hear you, ma’am.”
“But where were you?” persisted Miss Izzie.
“In the library, reading,” replied Katy.
Her aunt gave a sort of sniff, but she knew Katy’s ways, and said no more.
“I’m going out to drink tea with Mrs. Hall and attend the evening lecture,” she went on. “Be sure that Clover gets her lesson, and if Cecy comes over as usual, you must send her home early. All of you must be in bed by nine.”
“Yes’m,” said Katy; but I fear she was not attending much, but thinking, in her secret soul, how jolly it was to have Aunt Izzie go out for once. Miss Carr was very faithful to her duties, and seldom left the children, even for an evening; so whenever she did, they felt a certain sense of novelty and freedom, which was dangerous as well as pleasant.
Still, I am sure that on this occasion Katy meant no mischief. Like all excitable people, she seldom did mean to do wrong; she just did it when it came into her head. Supper passed off successfully, and all might have gone well had it not been that after the lessons were learned and Cecy had come in, they fell to talking about “Kikeri”.
Kikeri was a game which had been very popular with them a year before. They had invented it themselves, and chosen for it this queer name out of an old fairy story. It was a sort of mixture of Blindman’s Buff and Tag—only, instead of any one’s eyes being bandaged, they all played in the dark. One of the children would stay out in the hall, which was dimly lighted from the