She shook her head and looked very serious. “It is plain,” said she, “that there is something wrong about this, and now I want you to tell me the whole truth. I am sorry for the injury done my carpet—I am sorry for the loss of my bird, but don’t tell a lie Fred, for that would be worse than all.”
Fred took his old calico handkerchief from his pocket, and after he had wiped his eyes, he looked up to Aunt Betsey with an honest face, and told her the whole truth.
She did not speak, but she sat down and thought a long time. It seemed to her that she must send them home directly—that she could not have them in the house another minute. Then she thought of poor Hesper—of her sick father and mother, and the disappointment it would be to all.
“I will try to be patient a little longer,” she said. She took up the cage and began to sweep the pieces of glass together.
“Don’t you mean to do anything to me?” asked Fred. “I think I deserve it.”
“No;” said aunt Betsey, looking very sober. She opened the cage, and taking out the dead bird, laid it in his hand—-
“There,” said she, “if that don’t make you feel sorry, I don’t know what will.” Both of the boys burst into tears again, and cried so loud that aunt Betsey was right glad to pacify them. She put the dead bird out of sight, and told them they had best sit down by the fire, while she spread the table. They did as she desired, but they did not speak or stir from their chairs, and she knew by their deep sobs that their sorrow was unaffected. After dinner she asked them to wind some silk for her. They were glad to do anything she wished, and while Charlie held the skein, Fred wound it very carefully. When they had finished this, they asked her to let them do something else. She said she had a great basket of unshelled beans in the kitchen, and if they wished they might go out and shell them. She went with them, and after giving them some low seats, and a great basin to put the beans in, she went back to her work. For a long time she heard them chatting together and the beans dropping into the pan very fast. “I am glad,” she thought, “that I did not send them home. They seem to be very good hearted boys, only a little mischievous.” Then her thoughts became so much occupied with matching her pieces, that she forgot all about them.
Suddenly there came a terrible crash, and then a scream. She rushed into the kitchen as quickly as possible. There was her flower-stand completely overturned—the plants, pots and earth, scattered all about the floor, and Charlie lying in the midst. His nose was bleeding, and as he got up he was a most pitiful looking object. Fred stood by, pale with terror.
“He only went up the steps “—stammered Fred by way of explanation—“to smell of the flower on top, and it all broke down together.”