After supper came the fireworks. They were simply bewildering. Lulu, the
staunch little friend who had gone to Cynthia's in the morning, speedily
found her out, and was in a whirl of joy that she was there.
"How did you get away?" she whispered.
"Oh, Mrs. Dean came after me herself," returned Cynthia, "And Aunt Kate
couldn't say no to _her_."
Lulu gave Cynthia's hand a squeeze of sympathy.
"What made you bring your mamma's shawl?" asked Cynthia, as she noticed
that Lulu was encumbered with a plaid shawl of the heaviest woolen,
which she kept on her arm.
"Malaria," returned the child. "Mamma's _so_ afraid of it and she said
if I felt the teentiest bit of a chill I must wrap myself up. Horrid old
thing! I hate to lug it around with me. S'pose we sit on it, Cynthy."
They arranged it on the settee, and complacently seated themselves to
enjoy the rockets, which soared in red and violet and silvery stars to
the sky, then fell suddenly down and went out like lamps in a puff of
wind.
Suddenly there was a stir, a shriek, a chorus of screams following it,
from the group just around the fireworks. A pinwheel had exploded,
sending a shower of sparks in every direction.
All in a second, Florrie Dean flew past the girls, her white fluffy
dress on fire. And quick as the fire itself, Cynthia tore after her.
Well was it that the shabby green delaine was a woolen dress, that the
stout shoes did not encumber the nimble feet, that the child's faculties
were so alert.
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