“Yes; she had sat down on the kitchen step.”
“The kitchen step,” repeated Polly faintly.
“Yes. I suppose she got beyond caring whether the cook saw or not, she was feeling so very badly. Well, there she was, and she didn't hear me, so I just rushed up, or rather down upon her, and then I screamed 'Ow!' And she jumped up, and said, 'Oh, have you hurt your arm?' And I held on to it hard, and made up an awful face, oh, as bad as I could, and doubled up; and the cook came to the door, and said could she get me anything, and she was going to call Mrs. Fisher. That would have been terrible.” Alexia broke off short, and drew a long breath at her remembrance of the fright this suggestion had given her. “And Cathie fell right on my neck with, 'Oh, do forgive me,' and I said 'twas my fault, and she said, no, she oughtn't to have got mad, and I said she must hold her tongue.”
“Oh Alexia!” cried Polly reprovingly.
“I had to,” said Alexia serenely, “or we should have gotten into another fight. And she said she would, and I just took hold of her arm, and dragged her down here. And I'm tired to death,” finished Alexia plaintively.
“Alexia,” exclaimed Polly, cuddling up the long figure in a way to give perfect satisfaction, “we must make Cathie Harrison have the best time that she ever had, at the picnic to-morrow.”
“I suppose so,” said Alexia resignedly. “Well, but don't let's think of it now, for I've got you, Polly, and I want to rest.”