“So’d I,” put in Gyp; “at least, it didn’t storm till I was ’most at Jerry’s. I meant to go home again; but I was mixed up and came here instead. I’m glad I did, though, for now I’ve seen the kitties.”
“What time did you start, Gyp?” asked Harry, taking her on his knee, while she helped herself to his pie, unrebuked.
“Just when papa went up to school,” answered Gyp. “I wanted to get to Jerry’s in time for dinner; but he didn’t give me any. I had lots of fun with the crow, anyway.”
“But, Gyp,” remonstrated Louis, half-vexed at the child for being so unconcerned; “don’t you know you were naughty to run away, and frighten papa and mamma and all us boys?”
Gyp’s lip began to roll over, and she dropped her pie.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I only wanted to see the old man and the blue door that Leon told me ’bout.” And she burst out crying.
The boys looked at one another in dismay. It was easier for them to face the storm than Gyp’s tears, and they hastened to console her with assurances of pardon. The farmer’s wife came to their relief.
“Poor little tyke!” she said, taking the child into her motherly arms; “she’s plumb tired out, and I’ll put her straight to bed.”
The supper completed the work the fire had begun, and when their hostess came back to the kitchen, she found the boys pulling on their rubber boots again and buttoning their coats.
“Whatever are you going to do?” she asked, in astonishment.