“But, Peter, you’re not afraid of anything.”
“And you’re afraid of everything, so there’s the difference. I never saw such a girl. Snakes, and lizards, and toads, and spiders, and wasps—there isn’t a thing you’re not afraid of.”
“Yes, there is, too!” said Sophy, indignantly. “I’m not afraid of flies or butterflies or caterpillars—yes, I am afraid of caterpillars. They’re so fuzzy.”
“There, you see there is hardly anything! As for flies and butterflies, why, of course a baby wouldn’t mind them.”
“But what’s the use of those other things, Peter? What’s the use of wasps?”
“Wasps! Why, they’re very useful. They don’t hurt you unless you bother them, and they eat up slugs, and some kinds of caterpillars.”
“Well, wasps are very frightening, I think, even if they are useful, and so are hop toads, and hop toads are so ugly! Oh, here comes one now! Go away, you horrid, naughty toad!”
Peter and Sophy were on the piazza in the early twilight. Honor and Katherine were with the Madisons on the river, enjoying a picnic tea. Supper at Glen Arden was over, and Mrs. Wentworth Ward had walked to the village for her “constitutional,” which the hot weather had prevented during the day. Victoria had gone in search of Dave Carney, whom she thought she should be apt to find at liberty at this hour. It was the evening of the day upon which the robbery had been discovered.
“There is no use in an ugly toad, Peter,” continued Sophy.
“Indeed there is!” said her brother, in a tone of marked masculine superiority. “That just shows how little you know about things. Toads are regular policemen.”