"Yes, thank you," said Stella, sedately.

Marjorie giggled outright. "It seems so funny," she said, by way
of explanation, "to have you say 'yes, thank you' to us children;
I only say it to grown people; don't you, Molly?"

"I don't say it at all," confessed Molly; "I mean to, but I 'most
always forget. It's awful hard for me to remember manners. But it
seems to come natural to Stella."

Stella looked at her, but said nothing. She was a very quiet
child, and somehow she exasperated Marjorie. Perhaps she would not
have done so had they all been out of doors, playing together, but
she sat on a chair by Marjorie's bedside with her hands folded in
her lap, and her whole attitude so prim that Marjorie couldn't
help thinking to herself that she'd like to stick a pin in her. Of
course she wouldn't have done it, really, but Marjorie had a
riotous vein of mischief in her, and had little use for excessive
quietness of demeanor, except when the company of grown-ups
demanded it.

But Stella seemed not at all conscious that her conduct was
different from the others, and she smiled mildly at their
rollicking fun, and agreed quietly to their eager enthusiasms.

At last Jane came in with the tea-tray, and the sight of the
crackers and milk, the strawberries and little cakes, created a
pleasant diversion.