“It’s so dark,” said Polly discontentedly, “we can’t see anything,” as she went into the buttery for the flour.
“It’s so dark,” grumbled Joel, trying to make a box over in the corner, and catching her tone, “can’t see anything.”
Davie sighed, and went over to his mother’s corner, and stood there with a very long face.
“There, now you see, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, as Polly came back with the flour-sieve and the bread-bowl, and set them on the kitchen table.
Polly looked around the kitchen with a startled air. “Oh, I’m awfully sorry!” she cried, a wave of color flying up to her brown hair, “Mamsie, I truly am.” Then she rushed over to Joel, who was banging petulantly at a refractory nail, “Look out, you’ll pound your thumb,” and she kneeled down beside him.
“Don’t care,” said Joel crossly; “can’t see anything. Mean old rain spoils everything.”
“Joel!”—it was Mother Pepper who spoke, and her black eyes flashed sternly,—“that’s wicked. Don’t you let me hear you say such things again.”
“O Mamsie!” began Polly.
“And a boy who talks about the rain in such a way, is not only wicked but foolish. I think he had better go into the Provision Room, and shut the door, and sit down and think by himself for a while.”