“O, but ’tisn’t,” said Winnie. “My aunties dance, and their mamma, my grandmamma, was at the party once.”
“We shall tell our mothers,” said Lu. “I’ll bet you’ve come home a proud, wicked girl, and you want us to be as bad as you are.”
Now Winnie was only six years old, about the same age as her virtuous friends, and she didn’t look very wicked. She had pink cheeks, and blue eyes, and dimples. She stood gazing at her accusers, first at one and then at the other.028
“Luie,” said Kathie, gravely, “we mustn’t call Winnie wicked till we ask our mothers if she is.”
“No, I don’t think I would,” said Mrs. Tennyson, looking up from her sewing, her cheek flushing at the sight of tears in her little Winnie’s gentle eyes.
On the way home, they chanced to see their own minister walking along. Lu stopped short. “Kathie,” said she, “I know it’s awful wicked now, or else we never should have met the minister right here. I’m just going to tell him about Winnie.”
She went up to him, Kathie following shyly.
“Mr. Goodhue, Winnie Ten’son is a nawful wicked girl!”
“She is!” said Mr. Goodhue, stopping, and looking down into the little eager face.