“Oh, you did, did you?” said Mrs. Pearce. “Anything else—?”
“No, nothing else, thank you,” said Mavis, “only I want to say thank you for being so kind, and it isn’t high tide yet, and please we haven’t done any harm to the barrow—but I’m afraid it’s rather wet, and we oughtn’t to have taken it without asking, I know, but you were in bed and—”
“The barrow?” Mrs. Pearce repeated. “That great hulking barrow—you took the barrow to bring the shrimps home in? No—I can’t keep it to myself—that really I can’t—” she lay back in the armchair and shook with silent laughter.
The children looked at each other. It is not pleasant to be laughed at, especially for something you have never done—but they both felt that Mrs. Pearce would have laughed quite as much, or even more, if they had told her what it really was they had wanted the barrow for.
“Oh, don’t go on laughing,” said Mavis, creeping close to Mrs. Pearce, “though you are a ducky darling not to be cross any more. And you won’t tell, will you?”
“Ah, well—I’ll let you off this time. But you’ll promise faithful never to do it again, now, won’t you?”
“We faithfully won’t ever,” said both children, earnestly.
“Then off you go to your beds, and I’ll dry the things when your Ma’s out. I’ll press ’em tomorrow morning while I’m waiting for the boys to come in.”
“You are an angel,” said Mavis, embracing her.