"The poleece will put us in prison if we keeps you," said the farmer gravely, winking at his wife as he spoke.
"That will be lovely!" said Dreamikins, clapping her hands. "Then I'll come and see you. I want to see people in prison."
"Did you ever see such sperrit, John! Bless her little heart, I'd dearly like to keep her, but you'd best get the horse and trap round and drive her back at once. It's six miles; she could never walk it."
It was no good protesting; the farmer bestirred himself, but when the trap was at the door, and he came in to carry Dreamikins out, she threw her arms round Mrs. Dufty's neck, and clung to her convulsively with a bitter cry.
"I don't want to go home. I'll be good instead of wicked if you keep me just one night. I'm sure God wants you to. He's written it in the Bible."
"Look here, lovie, you shall come another day and see us, and p'raps stay the night if your uncle will let you. You go with John like a little lady now."
It was a tearful Dreamikins that sat perched on the farmer's knee in the trap. She really dreaded seeing her uncle, for she knew how naughty she had been. When home was reached, she was lifted down at the front door; but panic seized her, and the spirit of wickedness too. It was her last effort at defiance.
"I aren't going indoors! I'll run away again!"
She pushed open the gate that led out upon the lawn behind the house. Nobody was in the garden, and she raced down the path. She heard Annette's flying feet behind her, and then she tumbled—a garden roller was on the path. She fell over, clutched the handle of it, and brought the handle down with an awful crack on her leg. She screamed in agony, and poor little Dreamikins' wicked day was over; her leg lay twisted under her; and when she was picked up and carried into the house it was found that it was broken.