“[‘BUNTY DIDN’T DO IT,’ SHE SAID IN A WHISPER.]”
Then it struck her Bunty was not so called at school.
“His name’s John Woolcot,” she added, with downcast eyes; “I’m Poppet.”
Then Mr. Burnham remembered everything, and his eyes grew stern as he thought of the boy there [82] ]had been so much trouble with; but they softened as they fell again on the little, white, eager face.
“And his little sister is taking up his cudgels; thankless work, I’m afraid—eh?” he said quizzically.
Poppet was calm now,—the worst part of the ordeal was over, and she had actually gained the dread head master’s ear; she must make the most of her time.
“Won’t you believe him?” she said; “indeed he didn’t do it—oh, indeed.”
“What?” he asked,—“break the window—tell a lie—anything? Why, my little child, he owned to it.”
“Yes,” said Poppet, “he bwoke the glass, I know; and yes, he did tell one story.” Her face fell after the last sentence, and a little red crept into her cheek. “But he didn’t take the money—oh no, no!—oh, Bunty wouldn’t be a thief—oh, not for anything and anything—oh, indeed.”