“I never did!” said Mary Ellen in a burst. “I never touched them. I didn’t see her slippers.” And her eyes flashed in righteous indignation.
“Yes, she did,” interposed Roger, going over to Lydia and taking her hand. “Mary Ellen took Lydia’s slippers.”
“Oh, you—you—” cried Mary Ellen, making a dart at Roger as words failed her in her wrath.
“Children, stop!” commanded bewildered Miss Martin. “Stop this minute, and tell me what all this trouble is about. What have you lost, Lydia, and why do you think Mary Ellen has taken it?”
“I didn’t,” muttered Mary Ellen defiantly. “I didn’t.”
“Be quiet, Mary Ellen,” said Miss Martin again. “Tell, Lydia, what have you lost?”
“My slippers,” said Lydia, her eyes filling with tears at the thought of her lost treasure; “one of my ‘brown bettys,’ my bronze slippers. They are my best. Father packed them for me, and I saw them in my bag, and now only one of them is upstairs with the rest of my clothes. I can’t find the other, and Polly can’t either.”
“But why do you say that Mary Ellen has taken it?” asked Miss Martin, with a keen look at both little girls.
“She didn’t like it because Luley and Lena were too dressed up to play,” answered Lydia, “so she wouldn’t like my slippers either.”
“But I don’t think Mary Ellen would touch them, even if she didn’t approve of them,” said Miss Martin, hoping to find her way out of the tangle. “Did you touch Lydia’s slippers, Mary Ellen?”