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.ASSIC
iumphs. One farmerette alone was jnspicuously missing.
“She’s probably designing a cornoeing negligee!” tittered the thin girl ith the spatter of freckles. The manish one beside her nodded a bobbed ead vigorously.
“The sooner she beats it, the better!” le announced. “She’s making a laughig-stock of all of us! Suppose a reorter from a. Sunday supplement lould catch sight of those Ziegfeld ;gs!”
Prone on her face in the grass at this loment the possessor of the very ornalental legs lay weeping, steadily but ilently, amid the shattered fragments of er dream. But when a motherly hand ouched her shoulder, she lifted her wollen face with a gallant failure at a jmile.
“I’m not — not crying!” she denied, Shakily, “only, you see, I never knew jefore how hard it was to be a Benamin !”
Mrs. Hubbard Was wide and sweetaced and motherly. She sat down lumply on a nearby tree-stump and moothed the bright tangle of curls back rom the girl’s forehead. “Suppose you i;ell ma all about it, dearie,” she sug!;ested comfortably.
1 So Genevieve Rutherford Hale poured lut all the disillusion of the morning .nd the new-found and disquieting heory of the “youngest of the family,”Ivinding up by clenching her little fists 'aliantly. “But I’m not going to be a lacker! If cleaning smelly hen-houses vill help win the war. I’ll clean them if t kills me — it ’most did this morning, 00. And, if being the youngest is a
iisease. I’ll get cured ”
j “Land, dearie, every family has got to |iave a youngest !” Mrs. Hubbard smiled nistily. “I suppose my Bobbie is a Benjamin, too, when it comes to that. The older boys always made much of lim, and I guess I spoiled him — he was uiy baby, bless him !”
A sigh trod on the heels of the smile. Genevieve looked up at her sympathetically. “Did he want to go to fight ?”
The plump face took on anxious creases. “Well, no, he didn’t, not exactly,” Bobbie’s mother said. “He hated the notion of killing people. He’s got the tenderest heart in the world, Bobbie has, but he’s got grit too. Don’t you fret about being a Benjamin, child; you and Bobbie are going to show folks it’s a name to be proud of.”
It was a refreshed and dainty Genevieve that strolled out of the big house late that afternoon, with glowing cheeks and crisp curls peeping under the drooping tam-o’-shanter. The three disheveled farmerettes limping up the path from the cornfield stopped short in their tracks and glared at her speechless.
“I feel so much better,” Genevieve told them, sweetly.
“I’ve had a nice
‘Tlow long, Miss,” growled the farmer, “has my son Bobbie been writing to yon?”
(Twenty-nine)