This was just what Marjorie wanted, and, running to her mother's side, she laughed, too.
"Get away from me, you disreputable individual," said Mrs. Maynard, drawing her pretty morning dress away from possible contamination.
"Oh, Mothery, it's all dry now; it can't hurt you a bit! But isn't it awful?"
"Awful! You scamp, what does it mean?"
"Why, it's ink, Mother, dear; and do you s'pose it will ever come off?"
"No, I don't! I think it's there for the rest of your life. Is that what you wanted?"
"No. Not for my whole life. Oh, Mother, can't you get it off with milk, or something?"
Marjorie had seen her mother try to take ink-stains out of white linen with milk, and, though the operation was rarely entirely successful, she hoped it would work better on her own skin.
"Milk! No, indeed. Pumice stone might do it, but it would take your skin off, too. Tell me all about it."
So the inky little girl cuddled into her mother's arms, which somehow opened to receive the culprit, and she told the whole dreadful story. Mrs. Maynard was truly shocked.