"So should I if I were Dora," agreed her sister.
A minute later one of the girls, while testing the heat of the oven, screamed.
"Oh, oh!" she cried. "Oh, oh! I'm burned! Look at that!" and she held up her wrist with a white mark across it.
Her sister darted across the kitchen, crying:
"I'll get the witch hazel—you poor dear!"
She had forgotten Aunt Dora, hiding in the pantry, and she collided with her with considerable force.
"What's the matter with you?" demanded the exasperated old lady.
"Nothing with me," returned the hurrying girl. "It's she who's burned."
"Who's burned?" cried Aunt Dora. "Which of you is hurt?"
The girl who had stopped recovered her self-possession. "Let me go, Auntie," she said, quietly. "My sister has burned her wrist."