“Perhaps one of those old hens will pick it up,” suggested Lucy Bennett, pointing across the way to the station master's garden, where four or five fowl were busily scratching.
“Oh—oh!” Sally gave a little scream at that, and threw herself into Polly Pepper's arms. “My aunt's pin—and she told me—to be careful, and she won't—won't ever give me anything else, and now those old hens will eat it. Oh dear me! what shall I do?”
“How can you, Lucy, say such perfectly dreadful things?” cried Polly. “Don't cry, Sally. Girls, do keep on looking for it as hard as you can. Sally, do stop.”
But Sally was beyond stopping. “She told—told me only to wear it Sundays, and with my best—best dress. Oh, do give me your handkerchief, Polly. I've left mine home.”
So Polly pulled out her clean handkerchief from her coat pocket, and Sally wiped up her face, and cried all over it, till it was a damp little wad; and the girls poked around, and searched frantically, and Alexia, one eye on the clock, exclaimed, “Oh, girls, it's time for the train. Oh misery me! what shall we do?”
“And here it comes!” Lucy Bennett screamed.
“Stick on your hat, Sally, you've the pin part. Come, hurry up!” cried the others. And they all huddled around her.
“Oh, I can't go,” began Sally.
“You must,” said Clem; “we've telephoned back to Mrs. Horne we're coming. Do stick on your hat, Sally Moore.”
Alexia was spinning around, saying over and over to herself, “I won't stay back—I won't.” Then, as the train slowly rounded the long curve and the passengers emerged from the waiting-room, she rushed up to the knot of girls. “Go along, Sally Moore, and I'll stay and hunt for your old pin,” just as some one twitched Sally's hat from her fingers and clapped it on her head.