“Bridget, O Bridget! do come up here a minute,” she called softly down the back stairs.
“An’ shure, it’s not I that’ll be laving me work to look after the likes of ye,” muttered Bridget, heated and tired with her ironing.
What should she do? She crept slowly down the stairs and through the back entry, the big pillow-sham stuffed into the front of the shaker, and quite concealing the tall clothes-bars of freshly-ironed linen Bridget had just set out to air. Over they came, completely covering her.
“Mamma! mamma! O my mamma!” she screamed. “Oh-h! please, my dear mamma! please! PLEASE! ’fore I’m deaded over an’ over.”
That call wasn’t in vain. Strong arms picked her tenderly up; soft, skilful fingers untied the hateful knot, and bathed the poor, aching face; loving lips kissed away the tears.
“Oh, but it’s been such a horrid day!” whispered Maybee to papa, when supper had been eaten and it was time to say good-night.
“Dear me! How did it happen?” said papa.
“I happened it myself,” returned Maybee soberly. “Folks most always do, don’t they?”
“Exactly,” said papa. “The trouble that comes of sin we mostly put ourselves into.”
“An’ what does peoples do who haven’t any mammas to pull ’em out?” inquired Maybee anxiously.