“Everything needs patience, seems to me! The very quality of which I have the smallest stock is continually in demand. And as for the stinging, some people scarcely feel the stings, others have been killed by them.”
“Beatrice! you are not using a good argument in favor of your scheme,” remonstrated the careful mother.
“Wull, wull, if I’m goin’ ter be stung ter death, I’d ruther stick to hens,” remarked Robert, sagely.
“That was only to put the very worst foot forward, my dearie. The persons stung to death may have been one out of a million. Besides, you have already been stung a dozen times since we came here, by one bug or other, and you are still very much alive, as witness your escapade of this morning.”
“Mother, can I have a drink of milk?” asked “Humpty-Dumpty,” desiring to change the subject.
“If Beatrice will get it for you.”
“Of course I’ll do anything for my partner!” replied the girl, gayly. “But, just by way of getting down to facts, how many drinks of milk have you already had since you left your bed this day—this morning, I mean?”
“It’s good for him, dear,” commented Mrs. Beckwith, pleasantly; “and such a luxury that we have a cow, and milk of our own to drink.”
Bonny danced out of the room, and down the stairs cellarward, either not hearing or not obeying her mother’s suggestion that she would better take a candle with her. The others, left before the cheerful firelight, sat idly musing over the bee project or some other hopeful plan, even the milk-hungry boy was silent, when there came the sound of a heavy fall, the crashing of china, and the shrill shriek of Beatrice, in a mingled confusion that sent every person to a standing posture and chilled every heart with fear.
“She’s fallen downstairs! She must have broken her bones!”