“You can’t hold Flip,” said Susan, glowering at her. “You may have Snowball, but Flip is mine.” And she roughly seized Flippy to pull her out of Gentilla’s arms.
But Gentilla was not a gypsy child for nothing. If Susan could pull and slap, she could scratch and kick. So when Grandmother, at sounds of the scuffle, looked out of the window, she saw the model teacher and her pupil engaged in a hand-to-hand battle, with innocent Flip nearly torn in two between them.
“Susan Whiting!” called Grandmother.
And at the sound of her voice, with a mighty push that sent Gentilla backward upon the floor, Susan wrenched Flip from her grasp, and turned and faced the window.
“Put down your doll,” commanded Grandmother. “Now, go upstairs to your room and wait there for me.”
It was a miserable Susan whom Grandmother joined a few moments later. Without a word, Mrs. Whiting washed the hot face and hands, and helped Susan make ready for bed.
Downstairs she put Gentilla into the hammock, she herself lay down on the couch, and the afternoon quiet was unbroken as they all refreshed themselves with a long nap.
When Susan woke, and saw Grandmother standing by her bedside, she stretched out her arms and laid her penitent head upon Grandmother’s soft shoulder.
“I don’t know what did it,” said Susan at last, when she had whispered for several moments in Grandmother’s ear. “I meant to be good. I was trying so hard.” And Susan pensively put out her tongue and caught a tear rolling slowly down her cheek.
“Well, Susan, take my advice,” said Grandmother sensibly, “and don’t try to train Gentilla any more. It is all most of us can do to take care of ourselves, and we think Gentilla is a nice little girl just as she is now, don’t we?”