“Oh, Dolly,” said Aunt Abbie, smiling a little in spite of herself, “you should have known better. But you’re not entirely to blame. We did tell you that we used to have real fire in that stove, but father was always with us to look after it. Children should never play with fire alone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before, Aunt Abbie?” said Dolly, looking at her with a gentle reproach in her big dark eyes. “If you had, I’d have called you up, ’fore we lit it the first time!”
“Phyllis,” said Miss Rachel, turning to the little guest, “does your mother let you play with fire.”
“Why, no, Miss Rachel,” said Pinkie, in surprise. “But then, mother never lets us do any of the things you let Dick and Dolly do. We haven’t any garden or arbour or Lady Eliza or playhouse——”
At this, both Pinkie and Dolly began to cry afresh, for they remembered that now Dolly had no playhouse either! That beautiful house and barn and lawn and ponds,—all a mass of black, smoking ruins!
Dolly flew to her Aunt Rachel and buried her head on her broad, comforting shoulder as she sobbed out her woe.
“Oh, Auntie,” she wailed; “isn’t it dreadful! Those lovely little beds and bureaus, and the dolls Aunt Nine dressed,—and the looking-glass lake, and that little spotted pig,—he was so cunning,—and the gilt clock in the parlour,—oh—ooh—o-o-ooh!”
“There, dearie, there, there,——” soothed Miss Rachel, wondering whether Aunt Nine would think Dolly ought to be punished, and if so, what for.
“I wasn’t naughty, was I, Auntie?” went on Dolly, between her sobs. “I wouldn’t be so naughty as to burn up my dear playhouse on purpose!”
“Of course you didn’t do it on purpose, dear; and I don’t believe you were really naughty. But never mind that, now. Even if you were, you’re punished enough by the loss of the playhouse.”