She cried for nearly ten minutes before their wrath cooled. Then the pitifulness of her sobbings suddenly softened their hearts. They ran out to her.
“Poor old Weenie,” Dolly said; “never mind, Weenie, it doesn’t matter.”
Weenie clung to her convulsively, she had sobbed herself quite ill.
Phyl ran to the press where the clothes were kept and found a frock and pinafore; she was reproaching herself bitterly for the blue little arms and chattering teeth.
“Darling little Weenie,” she said, “here, let Phyl put this on—don’t cry so, baby sweet,—we aren’t angry a bit now, are we, Dolly? It doesn’t matter a scrap, does it, Dolly?”
“Not a scwap,” said Dolly eagerly.
They pulled her to the fire, and Phyl leaned perilously over the guard and poked till the flames leaped up warmly; they rubbed her perishing little hands, they petted and kissed her and called themselves all sorts of names for being so unkind to her.
“We’ll do anything, Weenie—anything,” said Phyl distractedly, when the convulsive sobbing still continued.
[94]
]Weenie was sufficiently recovered to press the advantage.
“Give me the l-little m-mangle for my ownty own,” she said.