“I don’t usually like babies tagging after me,” Mabel confided to her friend, fearing he might think her less like a boy than she had given him reason to suppose, “but Louie’s nurse has gone out,” she explained.
“Oh, I don’t mind her. I think she is a dear little girl,” Harold returned, and Mabel was relieved when his heart seemed entirely won by Louie’s overtures to “Boy,” as she called him.
All went merrily enough till supper time; then Mabel, intent only upon making Harold at home, brought him smilingly into the dining-room. She had forgotten the affair of the book, but it came back to her in a very unpleasant manner, when her father, with one of his most severe looks, greeted her with: “Mabel, was it you who was in the library this afternoon, meddling with my box of colors?”
Mabel turned as red as a beet, hung her head, tried to speak, and at last, faltered out: “I—I—yes, papa.”
“I might have expected it from a baby like Louie, but a girl as big as you must certainly have known better. You have ruined one of my most valuable and rare books,” Mr. Ford went on to say. All this before Harold. Poor Mabel felt as though she would sink through the floor. She wondered what punishment would be meted out to her, and she looked with pleading eyes at her mother.
CHAPTER II.
“THIS is Harold Evans,” Mrs. Ford said, tactfully drawing her husband’s attention from Mabel. “Harold’s father is in the army, and has gone to Cuba, so we are trying to make our little neighbor feel less lonely.”
“Mr. Evans? oh, yes,” said Mr. Ford, looking up; “I know him. That’s right, Alice, make the boy feel at home. Come here, son, and sit by me.” And the cloud blew over, much to Mabel’s relief. But the hurt of her remorse and shame still lingered. She did like to appear well before her friends, and to be shown up as a naughty, meddlesome little girl, was very hard. Besides, she really was greatly distressed at having spoiled the book, for she knew how her father loved his library, and treasured his rare books and papers.
“Papa,” she faltered, “I’m dreadfully sorry. I thought it was just an old book you didn’t care for; and—yes, I knew it wasn’t right to touch it. Is it one of your very preciousest books?”
“Yes,” replied her father; “I am afraid it is. See, Mabel; not only is this old print marred by those dreadful glaring colors, but you upset the glass of water I left here, and it has soaked through the book and carried the stain of the fresh paint with it. Then, where you were painting the pages are stuck together; and, well, you can see that destruction has followed your meddling. I must forbid you coming into this room again until your mother or I have given you permission.”