“Old Man Peters was a-beatin’ him up,” said the young farmer, working his hands awkwardly together and wishing he could help.
“Mamsie,” said Davie, both hands around her neck, and cuddling up to lay his white cheek against her face, “I didn’t let him have the basket—and you are to mend the coat. You can do it so much better, she says, than she can.”
“Mrs. Peters, Davie?”
“Yes, and Miss Matilda sent the jelly—no, it isn’t jelly—but—I forget—”
“Yes, I know, dear. Now let Mother see where you are hurt.”
“Oh, Mamsie!” Polly, flying back with the camphor bottle, was aghast as Mrs. Pepper stripped off the calico blouse.
“Put down the camphor, Polly,” said Mother Pepper. Her lips were set very tightly together, and a bright spot burned on either cheek. “Bring Mother the oil bottle and get the roll of old cotton in the lower bureau drawer. Be careful not to wake up Phronsie. Thank you, Mr. Thompson, for bringing home my boy,” as Polly ran off.
“I guess I’ll go back an’ lick Old Man Peters,” said the young farmer, turning off to the door.
“Oh, no,” Mother Pepper spoke quickly. “Say nothing to him. I’ll take care of the matter.”
“I’d love to,” said Mr. Thompson longingly.