twilights, with mother, and makes a table at whist, at once lively and
severe, in the evenings, for father. At this whist-table, Barbara
usually is the fourth. Rosamond gets sleepy over it, and Ruth--Miss
Trixie says--"plays like a ninkum."

We always wanted Miss Trixie, somehow, to complete comfort, when we
were especially comfortable by ourselves; when we had something
particularly good for dinner, or found ourselves set cheerily
down for a long day at quiet work, with everything early-nice
about us; or when we were going to make something "contrive-y,"
"Swiss-family-Robinson-ish," that got us all together over it, in the
hilarity of enterprise and the zeal of acquisition. Miss Trixie could
appreciate homely cleverness; darning of carpets and covering of old
furniture; she could darn a carpet herself, so as almost to improve
upon--certainly to supplant--the original pattern. Yet she always had
a fresh amazement for all our performances, as if nothing notable had
ever been done before, and a personal delight in every one of our
improvements, as if they had been her own. "We're just as cosey as we
can be, already,--it isn't that; but we want somebody to tell us how
cosey we are. Let's get Miss Trixie to-day," says Barbara.

Once was when the new drugget went down, at last, in the dining-room.
It was tan-color, bound with crimson,--covering three square yards;
and mother nailed it down with brass-headed tacks, right after
breakfast, one cool morning. Then Katty washed up the dark
floor-margin, and the table had its crimson-striped cloth on, and
mother brought down the brown stuff for the new sofa-cover, and the
great bunch of crimson braid to bind that with, and we drew up our
camp-chairs and crickets, and got ready to be busy and jolly, and to
have a brand-new piece of furniture before night.