"That's just what I think," Bertha said; "and she is like you, for you are good, and I am sure you are never cross."
"Oh!" little Miss Joy said, "that's a mistake. I am naughty when I hate Miss Pinckney, and when I am impudent to Susan. She says I am impudent, and Miss Pinckney has called me a 'saucy little baggage' very often. That's why I don't go into Miss Pinckney's shop to see dear Goody Patience and Jack.
"Ah!" Joy added with a sigh, "there is no Jack to see now; he is gone, and I do miss him so. He used to be so good to me;" and her eyes grew dim, and the corners of her rosy lips turned down ominously. "But I must go to Uncle Bobo now; he must be tired of waiting, and he'll get fidgety."
"Very well," Bet said; "I don't want you to get a scolding."
"A scolding!" Joy said, recovering herself from the momentary depression which the thought of Jack's loss had caused. "Uncle Bobo never scolded me in his life."
Then Joy stepped cautiously down the narrow stairs, and turning said—
"Good-bye, Bet; good-bye."
"Good-bye," poor Bet said, as, standing at the back-door, she watched her friend skipping off across the road to the seat where Uncle Bobo sat, with his round back—very round—and his short legs tucked up, one wide-toed boot upon the other, to give support.
"I wish she'd kissed me," poor Bet thought, as she saw Joy throw her arms round the old man's neck, and kiss all that was visible of his rosy cheek beneath his large wide-awake. "I'd like her to kiss me like that;" and poor Bet followed the two figures with lingering, longing eyes till they were out of sight.
Other eyes were following them also. Mrs. Skinner was standing by the window of her parlour, peering over the short white muslin blind at Uncle Bobo and Joy. What was she thinking about? For her thin lips were parted as if she were speaking to some one, and her long fingers worked convulsively with the strings of her black alpaca apron.