“I told him you said not to,” remarked the little girl.
“But I didn’t think you meant to-day,” observed Freddie, as he sat down on the grass and looked carefully at his big toe. Aside from being red, like Flossie’s nose, it was not cut or hurt.
“I didn’t want you to go in wading any time in this pond,” said the children’s mother. “There is broken glass in it and pieces of tin on which you might cut your feet. That’s why I wanted you to stay out.”
“Oh!” murmured Freddie. “I thought it was ’cause you didn’t want us to get wet.”
“Don’t go in again!” warned Mrs. Bobbsey, and thinking Freddie had been frightened enough she did not punish him any more.
“I—I tore my stocking a little,” confessed Flossie, wanting to have all the unpleasant things over with at once.
“That’s too bad,” said her mother. “You should have minded me. Well, put on your shoes and we’ll go back to the house.”
One might have thought this would be the last of the adventures of Flossie and Freddie for that day, but it was not. Just before sunset they went out in the barn to play in the hay. They slid on the sweet-smelling dried grass for a time, coasting down from the mow to the barn floor.
Then Flossie had an idea.
“Let’s hunt where the hens lay their eggs and bring in some,” proposed the little girl.