“The flower! The flower!” she cried and ran to gather it.
But it was no flower. It was a torn scrap of coarse blue gingham.
At her cry, Dennis rushed forward. He was, as they told him, “centipede mad,” and, at any unusual sound, his instant thought was of peril from the creeping thing.
“Where is it? Where? Wait till I beats the life out o’ him, the nasty beast!”
She waved the bit of cloth before his eyes and he exclaimed:
“The tie-before o’ the little gossoon!”
“What? What is it?” asked Carlos, running forward.
“Teddy!” answered his sister, holding out the scrap of cloth.
“It is! Surely. Yet—that wasn’t torn to-day. It’s been hanging there a good while. See the edges.”
Carlota’s heart sank, as she replied: