Girasole turned away once more, in fresh trouble. He had the stump carried off, and then he wandered away. He was quite at a loss what to do. He was desperately in love, and it was a very small request for Minnie to make, and he was in that state of mind when it would be a happiness to grant her slightest wish; but here he found himself in a difficulty from which he could find no possible means of escape.
"And now, Kitty darling," said Minnie, after Girasole had gone—"now you see how very, very wrong you were to be so opposed to that dear, good, kind, nice Rufus K. Gunn. He would never have treated me so. He would never have taken me to a place like this—a horrid old house by a horrid damp pond, without doors and windows, just like a beggar's house—and then put me in a room without a chair to sit on when I'm so awfully tired. He was always kind to me, and that was the reason you hated him so, because you couldn't bear to have people kind to me. And I'm so tired."
"Come, then, poor darling. I'll make a nice seat for you out of these skins."
And Mrs. Willoughby began to fold some of them up and lay them one upon the other.
"What is that for, Kitty dear?" asked Minnie.
"To make you a nice, soft seat, dearest."
"But I don't want them, and I won't sit on the horrid things," said Minnie.
"But, darling, they are as soft as a cushion. See!" And her sister pressed her hand on them, so as to show how soft they were.
"I don't think they're soft at all," said Minnie; "and I wish you wouldn't tease me so, when I'm so tired."
"Then come, darling; I will sit on them, and you shall sit on my knees."