She dived her hands into the pail, and attempted to catch them—quite in vain. Then James slowly poured away all the water on to the ground, and there the flounders lay, flopping about at the bottom of the pail. Peggy was almost afraid to touch them, but James said they would do her no harm; so she caught hold of one of the slippery, wriggling little fish, and flung it into the tub, and it darted off and hid itself under the seaweed. Then she put in the other flounder, and it also hid under the seaweed, where it couldn’t be seen.
“I think they must be sleepy, and be going to bed,” Peggy said. And then, quite tired out with her exertions, she rubbed her eyes and yawned, till Janet told her it was time for her to go to bed like the flounders; and Peggy agreed that it was.
CHAPTER XI.
THE LAST DAY AT SEAFIELD.
Now, if Peggy had taken time to think about it, she was only going to make herself unhappy by collecting all these delightful creatures in the tub; for her visit to Seafield was to come to an end on Wednesday, and this was Monday evening. The whole of Tuesday morning Peggy thought of nothing but her dear sea beasts. She stood beside the tub and watched them; she crumbled a bit of bread very fine, and flung it into the water, and actually saw one of the flounders eat a crumb; she chased the hermit crab into its shell a dozen times, and watched the whelks move slowly along the side of the tub. It was the nicest amusement she had ever had. But in the afternoon Aunt Euphemia said that they were going to drive to the station.
“Your father is coming for you, Peggy, you know; he is going to take you home to-morrow.”
Peggy was very fond of her father—so fond that she had cried when she said good-bye to him last week. It surprised Aunt Euphemia extremely that, instead of being glad to hear of his coming, Peggy seemed sorry, for she burst into tears.
“Why, Peggy, are you not glad to see your father?” said Aunt Euphemia.
“I don’t want to go home!” Peggy sobbed.