“Only one more! How many are you going to have?”
“Four,” said Peggy. She glanced up at him, and he looked as if he, too, would be hard on his clothes and would have some sympathy for her, so she added: “You see, it doesn’t tear easily. The man in the shop said it was as strong as nails. I am always spoiling my things.”
He looked down at the long smear with genuine concern. “If I hadn’t come along it wouldn’t have happened,” he said. “I’ll take you round to Aunt Betsy’s. She’s got stuff that takes out all kinds of spots. She’s got them out for me.”
“Is your Aunt Betsy the same as Clara’s Aunt Betsy?” Peggy asked.
“My Aunt Betsy is father’s aunt,” he said. “That’s the reason we came here to live. She told us your house was going to be sold and there wasn’t any good doctor here any more.”
They turned down a side street. “That’s the house she lives in,” he said, pointing to a small white cottage with green blinds.
“Oh, yes, I know her,” said Peggy. “She’s Miss Betsy Porter.”
Aunt Betsy was in her pleasant kitchen taking something with a delicious, spicy smell out of the oven. She came to the door and asked the children to come in. She was tall and thin, with gray hair and dark eyes. Peggy thought of her as an old lady, but much more interesting than old ladies usually were. There always seemed to be something very nice in the way of food at her house, no matter at what time one arrived.
“Now you children must each have a piece of my gingerbread,” she said. “I’ve just taken it out of the oven.”
Miss Betsy Porter was deeply interested in the stain on Peggy’s frock.