“Well, I must come and see them first,” her father said.
“And please, father, I got lost one day, and had my frock stolen—the new one—and the bees stung me, and a crab nipped my finger, and I was very naughty once—only once—and I went on to a green ship, and—and—”
“Why, Peggy, you seem to have had a week of the most extraordinary adventures; it will be quite dull to come home.”
Peggy wasn’t quite sure about this. She had so many things she was fond of at home, that if only she might take her sea beasts back with her, she thought she would be quite happy to return. She sat still for a few minutes thinking about this, while Aunt Euphemia spoke to her father. But the moment the carriage stopped at the door, she seized her father’s hand, and begged him to come and see her tub of sea beasts.
“Not till after tea, Peggy; I’ll come then,” he said.
Peggy would have liked him to come there and then, but she knew she must wait.
Tea seemed longer than usual. Her father told her to be quiet, so she ate away without uttering a word, and listened to all the dull things Aunt Euphemia was saying. At last, when tea was over, she came round to where her father sat, and took hold of his hand, and gave it a little squeeze, which she knew he would understand.
“Yes, dearest!” he said, but waited to hear the end of what Aunt Euphemia was saying. “Now, Peggy,” he said at last, “come along;” and together they went out to the garden, and came to the tub. Peggy looked in.
“Why, father,” she cried, “my crab is floating on his back! Isn’t it funny of him?”