“Twite; I isn’t dettin’ wet a bit, Miggie.”
Up the stairs Meg ran at a swift pace; that last speech was eminently Baby’s, and betokened many things.
“Oh, you wicked child!” she cried, and drove an unsummoned smile away from her mouth corners.
The big water-jug was on the floor near the washstand, and small Essie with slow and deep enjoyment was standing with one wee leg in the jug and the other on the oilcloth. The state of the lace sock and little red shoe visible betrayed the fact that the operation had been reversed more than once.
This was an odd little characteristic of Essie’s, and no amount of scolding and even shaking could break her of it. Innumerable times she had been found at this work of iniquity, dipping one leg after [15] ]the other in any water-jugs she found on the floor. And did Martha, in washing floors, leave her bucket of dirty water one moment unguarded, Essie would creep up and pop in one little leg while she stood her ground with the other.
Meg dried her, scolding hard all the time.
“All your shoes are spoiled, Baby, you naughty girl; what am I to do to you?”
“Velly solly,” said Baby cheerfully.