“That’s a good girl. Now tell me what else you did naughty?”
“When Sibyl talks about her sins, would it not be best for her to do so in private?” said the mother again.
“But this is private,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “only her father and mother.”
Mrs. Ogilvie glanced at a footman who stood not far off, and who was in vain endeavoring to suppress a smile.
“I washed my doll’s clothes, although nurse told me not,” continued Sibyl, “and I made a mess in the night nursery. I spilt the water and wetted my pinny, and I would open the window, although it was raining. I ran downstairs, too, and asked Watson to give me a macaroon biscuit. He wasn’t to blame—Watson wasn’t.”
The unfortunate footman whose name was now introduced hastily turned his back, but his ears looked very red as he arranged some glasses on the sideboard.
“Father,” whispered Sibyl, “do you know that Watson has got a sweetheart, and——”
“Hush! hush!” said Mr. Ogilvie, “go on with your confessions.”
“They’re rather sad, aren’t they, father? Now I come to think of it, they are very, very sad. I didn’t do one right thing to-day ’cept to make myself pretty. Miss Winstead was so angry, and so was nurse, but when I am with them I don’t mind a bit being naughty. I wouldn’t be a flabby good girl for all the world.”
“Oh, Angel, what is to become of you?” said her father.