"No, she needn't," said Gracie; "perhaps she does think I don't want her to be, 'cause at Christmas she knew I was mad about it."
"Are you going to beg her pardon?" asked Hattie.
"No," said Gracie, with one of her scornful tosses of her head. "I think I see myself doing such a thing! But I can write her a little note, and tell her we are all sorry because she won't be May Queen, and beg her to change her mind. I might do as much as that for Maggie," she added to herself.
Hattie tried to dissuade her no longer, and Gracie laid the mat down upon her desk, opened the lid, and took out a slip of paper and a pen. She dipped the pen in the ink, wrote, "My dear Maggie," at the top of the sheet, and then paused, biting the top of her pen.
"I can't think what to say, or how to begin it," she said. "My dear Maggie, I am very sorry—no. I had better say we—we are very sorry that you—that you—oh, pshaw! I've a great mind not to do it"—here she dipped her pen in the ink again, and so carelessly that it came forth quite too full. "Oh, bother!" she exclaimed with increasing ill-humor; "look at this hateful pen;" and, forgetting the precious piece of work which lay so near at hand, she gave a careless fillip to the pen which spattered forth the ink.
Gracie gave another impatient exclamation, and pushed away the paper, saying,—
"I shan't do it; if Maggie likes to be so foolish about nothing, she just can;" but she did not see the extent of the mischief she had done till Hattie said in a tone of great dismay,—
"O Gracie! just see what you've done!"
And there upon her beautiful mat was a great spot of ink.