“Violets,” concluded Grace.
“Water,” insisted Mabel.
“Violets,” said Grace.
“Both wrong,” said Debbie Clark. “It’s roses. We’ve had violets.”
“I don’t see any of those, either,” said Mabel, crossly. “It’s just plain water. I can’t even go to look at my pig.”
“You ought to sit beside him with an umbrella,” teased Debbie. “He may be getting drowned.”
“He’s all right,” assured always-comforting Sallie. “Charles moved him into the barn—he knew it was going to rain. Hello, Maude, why so pensive? What mischief are you cooking up now?”
“That’s just the trouble,” complained Maude. “Nothing will cook. I’ve been trying hard to think of something awfully wicked to do to cheer poor Henrietta up. The trouble is, when I really want to be bad I can’t do it. My badness always breaks out of its own accord when I least expect it; just when I’m really trying to be good. When it’s really necessary for me to be wicked, as it is right now, I surprise everybody—and especially dear Miss Woodruff—by being too good to be true. A regular angel child!”
“Still,” offered Hazel, “you managed to start something yesterday. I thought I’d die when I looked out the window and saw all you girls turning somersaults on the lawn.”
“What was that?” asked Isabelle. “I must have missed something.”