Devil's Wind by Patricia Wentworth Page B

frowned.
    â€œIs that some one calling you?” asked Helen.
    Megsie Lizzie’s frown deepened.
    â€œIt is Mooniah. She is a most iggerant woman. I suppose I have told her three million times that I will not be called ‘Missee Baba.’”
    â€œMissee Baba—a—a!” wailed the voice, shrilly nasal on the high note at the end.
    Mooniah was a good deal nearer.
    â€œMegsie Lizzie,” said Helen, “I’m afraid you’ve run away.”
    Megsie Lizzie tossed her head; seven brown ringlets tossed too.
    â€œShe is a stupid thing. Let us talk’ bout something else.”
    â€œVery well, what shall we talk about?”
    â€œShall I tell you a story?”
    â€œThat would be very nice.”
    â€œWell, once upon a time there was a man, and his name was Gideon and “Megsie Lizzie stopped abruptly.
    â€œI forgot—it’s a Sunday story,” she explained.
    â€œNever mind—do go on.”
    â€œBut this is a Wednesday. You can’t tell Sunday stories on a Wednesday day.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Megsie Lizzie looked doubtful. Then she said firmly:
    â€œBecause Sunday days is different from Wednesday days. They are quite different. They are a different colour.”
    Helen looked at the earnestly frowning little face, and did not smile. Instead she said in a soft, lazy voice:
    â€œWhat colour is Sunday?”
    â€œWhite,” said Megsie Lizzie, screwing up her eyes as if she were trying to see something. “A very shiny white, and up at the top there are some little goldy speckles. And Wednesday is green, so of course you couldn’t mix them, without getting the Sunday colour all spoilt.”
    Helen thought for a moment.
    â€œSupposing we were to pretend it was Sunday,” she suggested.
    â€œAre you a good pretender?” inquired the child.
    â€œVery good, and I am sure you are. Let us both pretend very hard.”
    Megsie Lizzie put both hands over the damp little forehead, and pressed them so tightly that the knuckles stood up white on her plump, brown hands.
    There was a pause. Then she sat up very straight.
    â€œHave you pretended? I have. Now it is Sunday, and I have said my prayers, and had my breakfast, and so have you, and you are my fifth daughter, and I am going to tell you a Sunday story. A real proper one, so you must attend.”
    â€œMissee Baba—a—a—a!” called the afflicted Mooniah in tones of despair.
    Helen could see her now, standing at the edge of the verandah where an abandoned doll betrayed its mistress’s passage.
    Megsie Lizzie turned her head, and saw too.
    â€œMooniah—chup—be silent,” she cried, and Mooniah fidgeted from one bare foot to the other, and called again:
    â€œAi Missee Baba! Very narty Missee Baba.”
    â€œThere isn’t any Missee Baba here ’t all,” retorted Miss Monson hotly. “There is only a Miss Sahib, a big Miss Sahib. I am paying a call. I am with Wilmot Miss Sahib. I also am a Miss Sahib. Mooniah, daughter of an owl, am I a Miss Sahib, or am I not?”
    â€œGod knows,” snuffled Mooniah.
    â€œI know,” said Miss Monson with decision. “Thou also knowest. Sit down and wait till I come, and be silent. The Miss Sahib and I are talking.”
    Mooniah collapsed into a despondent heap, and Megsie Lizzie abandoned the vernacular.
    â€œNow I will begin,” she said. “That is a most inrupting woman—inrupting and iggerant. Well, there was a man called Gideon, and he rolled a cake into a tent. No, that’s not the beginning. First of all he made a lot of soldiers come, and they didn’t want to come, and they lapped water out of their hands, and God was angry with them. And do you know why He was angry with them?” she demanded impressively.
    Helen experienced a slight confusion of mind in face of this rapid presentment of the Scriptural tale.
    â€œDo you know why?” she