“It—didn’t.”
“What was it, then? For mercy sakes! You’ve got me all worked up,” declared Nancy, who by now was out of bed and standing in front of Rosa’s chair.
“That’s just how I am; all worked up, so please don’t make me any worse. In the language of the poets, I’m ‘all—in!’”
“Of course, if you don’t want to tell me,” and Nancy turned back toward her bed, sullenly.
“But I do want to tell you; I’m just dying to, if you’ll only give me a chance. Nancy, you know you are horribly impatient. We can’t all be firecrackers like you.” Rosa was recovering her breath, her spirits and her use of language.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. But when I thought I heard the kitten I crawled very carefully around to the side porch. You know how kittens can scat. And the porch was dark as pitch, so,” Rosa was drawing out the story with provoking detail, “so, I called kitty, kitty, kitty! And I waited and listened. No kitty meowed an answer, and I was just turning back to the door when—something crashed down on the porch! Didn’t you hear it?”
“No; what was it?”
“Betty’s prettiest fernery, the white enameled one decorated with butterflies and flowers. Dad bought it for her when she came up here—a—bride!” There was tragedy in Rosa’s tones.
“But you must have knocked it over,” argued Nancy, none too sure of her assertion.