“Yes,” broke in Nelly, with honest warmth; “and it was an—an accident, as I think they call it, Miss Milly. The girls who saw it, say so. The ink just dropped right down, ker-splash.”
Melinda held down her head and looked conscious.
“Well, then,” said the good teacher, smiling at the “ker-splash,” “if it was an accident, I think we will have two wreath-makers, instead of one. Melinda may go up-stairs with Nelly, if she wishes, and both are to be very quiet and orderly, for Miss Elinor is not quite as well as usual, to-day.”
Melinda glanced towards Nelly, and was silent. She did not like to go, under such circumstances as these. She wished the honor of making the wreath, it is true, but she did not desire that distinction to be bestowed upon her as a favor. She felt galled too, that this very favor was accorded to her through Nelly Box’s means,—little Nelly, whom, every day, she had been in the habit of cuffing about as though she were an animal of totally inferior condition. She happened to raise her eyes, however, and they fell on the glad, beaming face of this same Nelly Box, who stood waiting for her. It was so evident that Nelly’s good-will towards her was sincere, it was so plain that this little schoolmate of hers desired to be friends with her, and to forget and forgive all the unpleasantness of the past, that Melinda could not resist the good impulse which impelled her onward. A feeling of shame and awkwardness was all that hindered her from accompanying Nelly up-stairs at once. She stood looking very foolish, her glance on the floor, and her fingers twitching at the upturned corner of her apron.
“Come, Melinda,” said Miss Milly, in a gentle, but brisk tone; “don’t keep Nelly waiting.”
The young girl could resist no longer. She smiled, in spite of herself, a great, ear-to-ear, bashful, happy, half-ashamed smile, and followed Nelly slowly up-stairs to Miss Elinor’s room, where they found her bolstered up in bed, as usual, and quite ready to give them instructions how to form her wreath. A sheet was already spread in the middle of the floor, and on this was a pile of evergreens.
“What, two!” said Miss Elinor, smiling, as they entered. “I am glad to see you both, although I expected but one. How is your mother, Melinda?”
"Better, ma’am," said Melinda; “she is coming to see you next week, if she is well enough. What shall we do first, Miss Elinor?”
The sick girl told the children how to begin, and, half sitting up in bed as she was, showed them how to tie together the fragments of evergreen with strings, so as to form the wreath. At first, the girls thought it hard work enough. The little sprays of hemlock would stand up, as Nelly termed it, “seven ways for Sunday,” and all they could do did not bring them into shape.
Miss Elinor could not help them much more than to give directions. She lay looking at them from her bed, half amused, and entirely interested in the proceedings.