“Sore froat,” said Florry, in a whisper, trying to insert her two chubby fingers between the bandage and her chin. “I mussent go outer the garden patch! I mussent play in the woods, for I'll be seed! I mussent stay long, for they'll ketch me outer bed!”
“Outer bed?” repeated Johnny, with intense admiration, as he perceived for the first time that Florry was in a flannel nightgown, with bare legs and feet.
“Ess.”
Whereupon these two delightful imps chuckled and wagged their heads with a sincere enjoyment that this mere world could not give! Johnny slipped off his shoes and stockings and hurriedly put them on the infant Florry, securing them from falling off with a thick cord. This added to their enjoyment.
“We can play cubby house in the stone heap,” whispered Florry.
“Hol' on till I tote in this wood,” said Johnny. “You hide till I come back.”
Johnny swiftly delivered his load with an alacrity he had never shown before. Then they played “cubby house”—not fifty feet from the cabin, with a hushed but guilty satisfaction. But presently it palled. Their domain was too circumscribed for variety. “Robinson Crusoe up the tree” was impossible, as being visible from the house windows. Johnny was at his wits' end. Florry was fretful and fastidious. Then a great thought struck him and left him cold. “If I show you a show, you won't tell?” he said suddenly.
“No.”
“Wish yer-ma-die?”
“Ess.”