"I lost the butter-pat," observed Peletiah again, and standing over her.
"And I'm a-goin' to live here," declared Rachel, in a transport, and wriggling in the sweet clover, "if I'm good. I'm goin' to be good all the time. Yes, sir!"
"I lost the butter-pat," repeated Peletiah.
"Butter-pat?" Rachel caught the last words and sprang to her feet.
"Oh, yes, I forgot; we must hurry with the butter-pat. Come on!" and she whirled around on Peletiah. "Why, where—?" as she saw his empty hands.
"I lost the butter-pat," said Peletiah. "I've been telling you so."
"No, you haven't," contradicted Rachel flatly.
"Yes, I have," said Peletiah stolidly.
"No such thing." Rachel squared up to him, her black eyes flashing. "You haven't said a single word, you bad, wicked boy."
"Yes, I have," repeated Peletiah, ready to say it over for all time; "I've told you so a great many times."