Catherine [firmly, with lifted chin]. I ain't going to lose my place! Here comes Cook now! I suppose she wants to get into trouble, too.
[Enter Cook, her high-colored shawl pinned
on her breast with a big brooch, her
bonnet-strings nearly lost in her fat chin.
Cook. What's the matter? What's it all about? Whose nice little girl is this?
Sally. I brought her here, Mrs. McGrath. She's Tibbie, a neighbor's child, and I brought her——
Cook. To see them beautiful dolls. Of course. And one of 'em happened to get broke? [Goes to Tibbie, and lifts her miserable little face.] Don't you feel bad one bit, darlin'! It was all an accident, and it's no good crying over spilt milk. And if Mrs. Darling gets mad at you, she ain't the real lady I take her for. Why, I gave my Clary a new doll this very evenin' and it's ready for a new head this minute. And did I go for to rare and tear about it? Not a bit of it! Why, bless you, she didn't go for to do it! Why, what child smashes a doll a-purpose? You're a pretty set, the whole gang of you, to pitch into a child! [Tries, with Sally, to comfort and silence Tibbie, who by this time is freely weeping. Exit Bonnet, and re-enter at once without hat and coat.]
Cook [looking hard at Mrs. Bonnet]. I've a great mind to stay here myself and stand up for her, yer pack of old maids, the lot of yer!
Bonnet. You will oblige me, Mrs. McGrath, by doing nothing of the sort. We've no need to have a whole scene from the drama. You've no business on this floor, anyhow, and I must insist on your keeping yourself in your own quarters.
Cook [mutters]. And I'll take my own time, yer born Britisher! [Putting her arm around Tibbie.] Well, Tibbie dear, you can be sure of this: however bad this seems, it'll soon be over. And if Mrs. Darling scolds, that'll soon be over, too. It'll all be looking different to you in the morning. However things goes, you'll soon be forgetting all about it. And to-morrow is Christmas Day, that our own dear Lord was born on, and I'll bake you a little cake and send it to you by Sally.
Tibbie [sobbing]. But Sally's going to be sent away.
Cook. So she might be, but I feel it in my little toe that she ain't going to be.