“Oh, mama!” she cried, climbing up on the bed and patting her mother’s cheeks to wake her.
Mrs. Conway’s eyes sprang open, and Weenie tugged vigorously at her sleeve.
“Come on quickerly,” she said; “oh, ever so [77] ]quickerly; naughty Phyl and Dolly’s in dadda’s room, makin’ it awful drefful.”
The mother rose up and followed her, though her blinding headache would hardly allow her to keep her eyelids open.
When she saw the havoc in the quiet place, she leaned against the doorpost quite overcome.
“[We’re not playing, Weenie.]”
“How could you?” she cried, her voice thrilling with pain—“how could you?—how could you?”
She gathered up her strength and tottered across the room; she began on one of the heaps, replacing feverishly book after book.
“Oh, go away,” she said; “go away all of you.”