“Maybe she was bad and her mother scolded her,” said Dot.
At the supper table Aunt Polly listened to the story of the afternoon’s drive, and heard about Mrs. Cook and the queer little house, but all the time she seemed to be thinking of something else. And there was certainly something seriously wrong with Linda. She scarcely ate any supper, and her eyes were red, as Meg said. Twaddles was sure she had the toothache. When he went out into the kitchen after supper he found her crying over the dishes, and she was cross to him and told him to get out of her kitchen.
“I guess Linda has the measles,” reported the astonished Twaddles to the rest of the family, who were on the front porch.
“Yes, I guess she’s sick,” remarked Bobby. “She didn’t want any cold chicken.”
“Was she bad, Aunt Polly?” questioned Dot “Did her mother punish her?”
“Well, Linda and I had decided not to bother 126 you with our troubles,” said Aunt Polly, “but I see we can’t hide a thing from your sharp eyes. I have bad news to tell you. While you were away with Peter this afternoon, and while Linda and I were in town, a miserable chicken thief got into the chicken yard and stole ever so many chickens. We don’t know yet how many. And they took nearly every one of Linda’s ducks. She has the ducks for her own, you know, and she uses the money for her school clothes. So that’s why she’s crying.”
The four little Blossoms sat and stared at Aunt Polly. They had completely forgotten the chickens and ducks and the one lame turkey shut into the tent till this minute.
“Aunt Polly!” gasped Meg, in a very little voice. “Aunt Polly––please, we were just playing, and––and–––” Meg could not go on.
“We were playing Indians,” said Bobby, coming to the rescue of his sister, “and we had to have some captives. So––so–––”
“We took the chickens and the ducks,” went on the twins in concert.