Chicken Little joyfully gathered up her pieces and needle and thread, but instead of running back to the girls, she went to the window looking out into the tree tops thoughtfully. She stood there thinking for several minutes, her brown eyes sober and her forehead puckered into a firm little line. Finally she shook her head and exclaimed regretfully:
“I guess it wouldn’t be fair!”
Then she walked soberly back to the girls.
“Mother’s gone and Alice says I can, but—but—I guess I oughtn’t to, Gertie. I promised Mother I’d do it, you see. But I’ll help you with your examples.”
“You could do it over at our house yourself.”
“Yes, but I think Mother ’spected me to stay at home and she let me off this morning. I guess I won’t.”
And she was deaf to further argument.
The child squared herself sturdily as the other children climbed the back fence, then walked straight into the house, carefully washed her hands—which would greatly have astonished her mother could she have seen her—and settled herself doggedly down to the patchwork.
The stitches were pretty straggly when her mother came to examine them that evening, but they had been faithfully and painstakingly set with much pricking of awkward little fingers. Her mother conceded somewhat grudgingly that she had worked pretty well.
“I trust you realize how very naughty you have been to destroy your pretty silk pieces and your beautiful hair ribbons,” she added.