Such was not the case, however. After luncheon, Marm Lisa had washed the
twins’ hands and faces in the back-yard as usual, and left them for an
instant to get a towel from the kitchen. When she returned, she looked
blankly about, for there was no sign of the two dripping faces and the
uplifted streaming hands. They had a playful habit of hiding from her,
knowing that in no other way could they make her so unhappy; so she stood
still for some moments, calling them, at first sharply, then piteously,
but with no result. She ran to the front gate; it was closed; the
rope-fastening was out of reach, and plainly too complicated even for
their preternatural powers. She hurried back to the house, and searched
every room in a bewildered sort of fashion, finding nothing. As she came
out again, her eye caught sight of a kitchen chair in the corner of the
yard. They had climbed the picket fence, then. Yes; Atlantic, while
availing himself of its unassuming aid, had left a clue in a fragment of
his trousers. She opened the gate, and ran breathlessly along the
streets to that Garden of Eden where joy had always hitherto awaited her.
Some instinct of fear or secrecy led her to go quietly through all the
rooms and search the playground without telling any one of her trouble.
That accomplished fruitlessly, she fled home again, in the vain hope of
finding the children in some accustomed haunt overlooked in her first
search. She began to be thoroughly alarmed now, and thoroughly confused.
With twitching hands and nervous shaking of the head, she hurried through
the vacant rooms, growing more and more aimless in her quest. She
climbed on a tall bureau and looked in a tiny medicine cupboard; then
under the benches and behind the charts in the parlour; even under the
kitchen sink, among the pots and pans, and in the stove, where she poked
tremulously among the ashes. Her newfound wit seemed temporarily to have
deserted her, and she was a pitiable thing as she wandered about, her
breath coming in long-drawn sighs, with now and then a half-stifled sob.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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