"It says they are well and in good spirits, that they are glad to
be coming home again, but will be very hungry when they get here, so I had
better bestir myself and 'kill the prodigal,'" and she rose to visit the
kitchen.
"Well, she has told the story within the limit of ten words, too," said
Hugh, making some excuse for keeping the bit of paper so long before him.
"What prodigal are you going to kill, mamma?" said Gracie, following her
mother into the kitchen.
"Oh! that is what we will call the big fat chicken that eats so much oats,
and picks the little ones on the back when they try to get a mouthful. He
will do for a prodigal, so we will have him cooked for Elsie's supper."
Gracie sat down on a low stool, her face wearing a puzzled expression, and
she began to repeat to herself the parable of the prodigal son. Suddenly a
bright look came over her face, for she had solved the troublesome riddle,
and she joyfully exclaimed:
"Oh, mamma! Dexie didn't learn it right; they didn't kill the prodigal, it
was the fatted calf that was cooked! Oh, dear! how funny to make such a
mistake, and she such a big girl! Say, Hugh," as he passed through the
room, "Dexie is the prodigal, and not the fatted calf, isn't she?"
And with more earnestness than the subject demanded he replied: "I hope
so.
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