“Well, if the wasp was all that was the matter,” queried mother, “why didn't you go after it?”
Missy didn't reply.
“Why did you just stand there and let it keep stinging you?”
Missy opened her lips but quickly closed them again. She realized there was something inconsistent in her explanation. Mother had accused her of immodesty: riding astride and wearing those scandalous pepper-and-salts and showing her legs. If mother was right, if she WAS brazen, somehow it didn't tie up to claim confusion because her—
Oh, legs!
She didn't try to explain. With hanging head she went meekly to her room. Mother had ruled she must stay there, in disgrace, till father came home and a proper punishment was decided upon.
It was not a short or glad afternoon.
At supper father came up to see her. He was disapproving, of course, though she felt that his heart wasn't entirely unsympathetic. Even though he told her Mr. Picker had made him pay for the bucket of candy. Missy knew it must have gone hard with him to be put in the wrong by Mr. Picker.
“Oh, father, I'm sorry!—I really am!”
Father patted her hand. He was an angel.