“That is just like you. You come here and enjoy yourself, and have a great hearty meal, and when you are likely to get into a scrape you throw the blame on me.”
“You can understand that I am very miserable, Nancy.”
“Yes; and I’m as sorry as I can be about that burn; but if you’ll be brave and plucky now, I’ll help you all I can. We’ll get up as soon as ever the day dawns, and cook shall put your arm straight.”
As Nancy uttered the last words her voice dwindled to a whisper, and a minute later she was again sound asleep. But Pauline could not sleep. Her pain was too great. The summer light stole in by degrees, and by-and-by the sharp noise made by a shower of gravel was heard on the window.
Pauline sprang into a sitting posture, and Nancy rubbed her eyes.
“I’m dead with sleep,” she said. “I could almost wish I hadn’t brought you. Not but that I’m fond of you, as I think I’ve proved. We haven’t yet made all our arrangements about the midnight picnic, but I have the most daring scheme in my head. You are every single one of you—bar Penelope, whom I can’t bear—to come to that picnic. I’ll make my final plans to-day, and I’ll walk in the Forest to-morrow at six o’clock, just outside your wicket-gate. You will meet me, won’t you?”
“But—— Oh! by the way, Nancy, please give me back that beautiful thimble. I’m so glad I remembered it! It belongs to Aunt Sophia.”
“I can’t,” said Nancy, coloring, “I lent it to Becky, and I don’t know where she has put it. I’ll bring it with me to-morrow, so don’t fuss. Now jump up, Paulie; we have no time to lose.”
Accordingly Pauline got up, dressed herself—very awkwardly, it is true—and went downstairs, leaning on Nancy’s sympathetic arm. Nancy consulted the cook, who was good-natured and red-faced.
“You have got a bad burn, miss,” she said when she had examined Pauline’s arm; “but I have got a famous plaster that heals up burns like anything. I’ll make your arm quite comfortable in a twinkling, miss.”