“Now, Nesta, it is your turn,” said Molly. “You ought to be going to mother. Do go along and make yourself scarce. Do your duty; it’s no use grumbling. She’s off now for her fill of pleasure, and we cannot get her back. Horrid, mean, spiteful old cat!”
“You can’t be called Miss Mule Selfish for nothing, can you?” said Nesta.
Molly laughed at this.
“Doesn’t it sound funny?” she said. “I’ll tell—”
She stopped herself. She was about to say that she would tell the Carters, who would keenly relish the joke.
Nesta slipped out of the room. She had already secreted her hat under the stairs. It was soon on her head, and a minute or two later she had dashed down the sidewalk, passed through the wicket gate, and was away through the woods.
The Griffiths lived about three-quarters of a mile away. They were not rich like the Carters, but they had a little house in the opposite suburb of the town, a little house with a fairly big garden, and with woods quite near. Flossie was an only child; she was a great pet with her father and mother, whom she contrived completely to turn round her little finger.
She was standing now at the gate, waiting anxiously for the moment when her darling Nesta would arrive. She and Nesta were to go for a picnic all by themselves to a distant ruin. Flossie was to bring the eatables; Nesta knew nothing of this delectable plan, for Flossie had resolved to keep it a secret all to herself. But now, with her basket packed—that basket which contained tea, milk, sugar, various cakes, a small pot of jam, some bread, and a little pat of butter, as well as a second basket filled with ripe gooseberries—she anxiously waited for her visitor.
By-and-by Nesta was seen. She was running, and looked very untidy, and not like her usually spruce self.
“Dear, dear!” called out Flossie. “How do you do, Nesta? What in the world is the matter? You haven’t put on your best frock or anything.”