“Oh, Bunty!” she said, and put her face right down in the long grass. The earth and the tears got mixed, and smirched the clearness of her skin—there was a wet, black smudge all down her poor little nose.
“Poppet!” cried Meg’s voice, preceding her down the path in the dusk. “Are you really sitting on the grass again when I’ve told you so often how wet the dew makes it? John, how can you let her, when you know how she coughs! Go to bed at once, Poppet, it’s after eight; and you haven’t touched your home-lessons, John—really it’s one person’s work to look after you—and where is that coat with the buttons off?”
“On my bed,” “John” said sulkily.
“I wish you’d hang it up—what’s the use of pegs? [31] ]Poppet, go in when I tell you—don’t be naughty. Now, John, go and start your lessons. You’d better do them in your bedroom, you make such a litter downstairs.”
Meg turned to go back, Poppet’s reluctant hand held fast.
“Can’t I stay five minutes, please, Meg?” the little girl said, looking up beseechingly.
Even in the fading light Meg saw the sweet brimming eyes and quivering little lips.
“John!” she said angrily, “you’ve been bullying the poor little thing again; I simply won’t have it—I shall speak to father.”
“Oh, shut up!” said John; and he moved away wearily up to the house.