"'Taint late, either, Charley Waters; and you are an ugly boy to call me that. My name ain't Baby Pitcher; my name is Flora Lee!"
"Whew!" said Charley. "The Lee spunk is running away with the little pet. Catch it somebody!"
"You must not tease her," said Amy; "she wants to play."
"Don't either," pouted Flora.
"I thought you did."
"She wants coaxing," said Charley.
"Don't either, Charley Waters."
"You will play to oblige sister, won't you?" said Amy, soothingly.
No, Flora would not. Charley had interfered with their plans and ruffled her temper. It was too bad of Charley, but then Charley was not wholly to blame, for the Baby Pitcher's temper was easily ruffled. And now it was really time for Amy to go. The fifteen minutes had melted away.
"I do not like to leave the little sister with such a sour face," she whispered in Flora's ear. "If you will brush away the black looks and be pleasant, you may ask mamma to let you write on my white slate."