“Oh! oh! oh!” Peggy cried, burying her nose in the lovely red bunch.
But then something horrid happened: a whole family of great, fat, brown earwigs came hurrying and dropping out of the roses, in the greatest speed to get away. Down went the roses on to the steps, and Peggy cried in earnest now.
There was nothing she hated like earwigs, and to have a whole nest of them fall out on her frock was too much for her altogether. And then Martin was so pleased.
“See there, Miss Peggy; that’s what you get for wanting to pick flowers!” she said. But she did brush away the earwigs, and stamped upon the biggest of them to Peggy’s great disgust. Then they went into the house, and she had to speak to her aunt; and, of course, she had nothing to say to her.
Tea was on the table. A different kind of bread was there from the home-bread Peggy knew. She went and stood beside the table and looked at it, then put out her finger and touched it.
“Don’t touch things on the table!” said Aunt Euphemia.
“I’m sorry!” said Peggy, and wanted to cry again. But the door opened, and such an exceedingly nice cat came walking in, just as if the house belonged to it, that she forgot all about crying.
She ran to the cat, and went down on her knees on the carpet to stroke him.
“He is called Patrick,” said Aunt Euphemia; “take care that he does not scratch you.”
But Patrick did not mean to scratch. He rubbed his big yellow face against Peggy in the most friendly way, and then walked to the tea-table and jumped up on a chair and mewed twice, very loudly, exactly as if he were asking for his tea.