Helen and Carl were there too, the one making a bonnet
for her doll, the other pasting in his scrap-book, sitting on the
floor with a newspaper spread out before him. Dora had received a warm
welcome when she came in with her work, as she often did. They all
agreed in thinking that she could not come too often, and to Dora life
in that house was a sort of enchantment. It seemed brighter, roomier,
pleasanter there than anywhere else.
Her young friends did not dream of the cares already resting on her
shoulders: the effort to cheer her mother, who was fast becoming an
invalid, the life in the large boarding-house that neither of them
liked.
"Do you think it will be pretty?" Bess asked, holding her basket at
arm's length to see the effect of the golden-brown ribbon she was
weaving in and out through the straw.
"It is a beauty," answered Dora admiringly.
"Yes, it _is_ pretty, really," said Louise, whose fingers were trying
to fashion what she called a stylish bow.
"Girls are funny, always sticking bows on things," observed Carl.
"If it is funny to like to make things look pretty, I am glad I am
funny," said Dora severely.
"Dear me! Of course, I was not objecting in the least," replied the
young gentleman, who rather enjoyed being taken to task by Dora.
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