“It’s a great deal more likely to put me into a pet,” said she. (Screech, screech, went the cockatoo.)
“He knows you are talking of him,” said I, “and does not like to be spoken ill of behind his back.”
“Then he’ll hear no good of himself from me,” says Phillis.
“The donkey-boy is waiting to be paid,” said I, “and Miss Burt wants something sent back. I will send it by him, and write her a line about the bird.”
“Suppose he takes it back,” cried Phillis.
“No, that would hardly do.”
“Well, ’twould look queer-like, that big stand in the donkey-chair!” and she went off laughing.
I hastily wrote:—
“Whiterose Cottage, Wednesday morning.
“My dear friend,