Florence hung her head.
“I—I borrowed your penknife out of your knapsack when you laid it on the grass to get lunch out of it.”
“The knife? I didn’t.”
“No; the knapsack,” said Florence meekly. “An’—an’ oh, dear sister, I’m so sorry!”
Winona could scarcely help laughing, worried as she was. When Florence had been naughty she always became suddenly very affectionate. At other times she wasn’t, especially.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said gravely. “I don’t know what Mrs. Bryan will say to you, nor mother, when she hears about it.”
“Let me see,” said Mrs. Bryan behind them. She had hurried over at Lucy’s summons.
“Oh, is it—is it an artery?” breathed Winona, as Mrs. Bryan bent over the wounded arm.
Mrs. Bryan laughed. “Nothing of the sort, you foolish child,” she said. “It’s only a deep cut. It didn’t even strike a large vein.”
“Oh, I’m so glad!” said Winona, drawing a long breath.