“There, turn around. The other side is all messed with it, too.”
“Is it spoiled, Mother? Is my new clothes no more good?” wailed Robert, ruefully regarding the liberal dash of water which his mother gave those cherished articles.
“They will never look well again, but they will be wearable, I hope. Bonny’s fresh frock is unfit for further use, however, until after it is laundered again. What will you wear to-morrow, child?”
“The old winter one, I suppose.”
“But if you are going away with your employer, will it answer?”
“The best one, then. When a body has just one good gown and two week-day ones, she hasn’t much trouble in making her decisions. I care only about the cups.”
“Don’t think of them again. I am thankful you were not hurt. But, my darling, is there nothing else you are sorry for?”
“Oh! I—suppose—so! The quarrel with Belle. But she was as much to blame as I. She shouldn’t have put the pan there if she didn’t want it tipped over.”
“Broken cups may be replaced, and soiled frocks made clean. These are trivialities; but a wounded spirit—I believe I can trust my Beatrice, can I not? Now come indoors. Roland has, also, a ‘secret’ to tell, or a statement to explain. He is probably impatient to do so. About the express wagon. Come, Robert. It is almost your bedtime, anyway.”
“Mother, if anybody isn’t good who lives with you, she ought to be ‘kicked by cripples’! You—”