"No, grandpapa, but—who did it?"
"Who did it? Why, the mother sheep there."
"She is very ungrateful," said Maggie, indignantly. "I came to help her, and she oughtn't to do it."
"She did not know that, dear," said grandpapa. "She thought you, too, were coming to hurt her lamb, and she could not tell what else to do. See there, Bessie, the cows which you were so afraid of did not even look at us, while this meek, timid sheep, of which you had not the least fear, has knocked over Maggie. Do not look so distressed, dear; Maggie is not hurt at all."
It was some time before Bessie could quite believe this. It seemed to her scarcely possible that her dear Maggie should have been thrown down in such a rude fashion, and yet not be hurt. But so it was; not a scratch nor a bruise was to be found. The ground was not very hard just here, and the grass quite soft and long; and beyond the fright and a streak or two of earth on her white dress, Maggie had received no harm from her fall. It made her feel rather sober, however, and she walked quietly along by grandpapa's side without skipping and jumping as she had done before.
"Grandpapa," said Bessie, "don't you think the sheep ought to know better?"
"Well, Bessie, I think we must not blame the poor creature. She did not know that Maggie was her friend, and Flossy had frightened her and made her angry. If she had been alone, she would probably have run away; but she loved her child better than she did herself, and took the best way she knew to keep it from harm."
"You are very naughty, Flossy," said Bessie. "You did a deal of misfit. You frightened the poor little lambie, and made my Maggie be knocked down."
"Yes," said Maggie, "he'll have to be taught, 'to do to others.' Poor little fellow! He don't know much himself."