"Come on, Sarah—that's a good girl," begged Rosemary. "Jack is here, too, and he wants to get back to work."
"Tell him to go, then," muttered Sarah. Jack climbed over one of the boulders and gazed down at the obdurate little person whose unhappy brown face lacked its usual life and color. Sarah did not look like herself.
"Look here, Sarah," said Jack with directness, but not unkindly. "Your mother is worried stiff about you and you're coming back with us and coming now. If you don't want me to climb down there and pull you out, you'd better scramble up this minute."
Suddenly Sarah climbed up the rock furthest from Jack and dropped to the ground. She refused to take Rosemary's hand and scuffed on before them silently, like a small Indian in a very bad temper.
"She does care," whispered Rosemary to Jack. "She always acts like this when she wants to cry and is too proud."
With Rosemary to the left of her and Jack on her right and no possible avenue of escape open, Sarah mounted the porch steps. Someone all in white, fragrant and dainty and sweet, gathered her, dirt-stained and disheveled as she was, into loving arms. Sarah began to cry.
"There, my precious," said Mrs. Willis softly, "tell Mother all about it—she wants to hear."
Rosemary and Jack slipped away.