Christie flew to the rescue, and, hydropathically treated, the
anguish of bumps and bruises was soon assuaged. Then appeared the
appropriate moment for a story, and gathering the dilapidated party
about her she soon enraptured them by a recital of the immortal
history of "Frank and the little dog Trusty." Charmed with her
success she was about to tell another moral tale, but no sooner had
she announced the name, "The Three Cakes," when, like an electric
flash a sudden recollection seized the young Wilkinses, and with one
voice they demanded their lawful prize, sure that now it must be
done.
Christie had forgotten all about it, and was harassed with secret
misgivings as she headed the investigating committee. With skipping
of feet and clapping of hands the eager tribe surrounded the stove,
and with fear and trembling Christie drew forth a melancholy cinder,
where, like Casablanca, the lofty raisin still remained, blackened,
but undaunted, at its post.
Then were six little vials of wrath poured out upon her devoted
head, and sounds of lamentation filled the air, for the irate
Wilkinses refused to be comforted till the rash vow to present each
member of the outraged family with a private cake produced a lull,
during which the younger ones were decoyed into the back yard, and
the three elders solaced themselves with mischief.
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