marvelous and hair-breadth adventures of an English lad in an Indian
campaign.

Florence Dombey's attention, however, was not on the book. It was
riveted, hectically, on her mistress, who with her tongue caught
between her lips was deftly whittling a cigar box cover into doll
furniture, of a scale so tiny that even had Florence Dombey had a doll
of her own, it could not have hoped to use the furniture.

It was very quiet in the oak tree. The little furniture-maker spoke
softly to Florence Dombey occasionally, but otherwise crickets and
locusts made the only sounds on the summer air.

Suddenly she closed the knife sharply. "Darn it! I've cut myself
again," she said. She dropped the knife down the neck of her blouse
and began to suck her finger. "Here, let me have Henty, Florence
Dombey. Don't try to pig it, all the time. You know I don't get
hardly any time to read."

The furniture and the remains of the cigar-box cover followed the knife
into her blouse and she opened the book. But before she had begun to
read there was a sleepy little call from below.

"Yes, baby!" called the child. "Here's Lydia, up in the tree! Watch
me, dearie! See me come down. Here comes Florence Dombey first."

With some difficulty the book followed the knife and the furniture into
the blouse. Florence Dombey, being hastily inverted, showed a length
of light martin cord wrapped about her cotton legs.