“No, indeed,” she said, “the first thing Blue Birds must learn is to obey orders and keep promises. You promised to stay up there till evening, Florence, and you must do it.”
Florence pouted, but she stayed. She really had lost quite a little blood in her adventure with her sister’s penknife, and, though Mrs. Bryan did not tell her so, the walk might have been too much for her. She wriggled and yawned, and once sat up straight, till her bearers requested her to lie still. But presently she had a companion in misery.
It was nearly the end of the journey, and the farmhouse where the girls planned to stay the night was in sight. Winona, strolling on ahead, saw a small gray kitten prowling along the side of the road. It was a most unhappy kitten; it looked as if it hadn’t had a square meal since it could remember, and there was an ugly-looking place on its side as if something had worried it. It limped a little, too, poor little cat, and altogether a more forlorn animal would have been hard to find. But Winona pounced on it.
“Oh, you poor little cat!” she cried. “Look, Helen, some horrid dog has hurt it.”
“Oh, don’t pick it up!” said Marie. “It may have something awful.”
“Smallpox, maybe?” inquired Winona sarcastically. “Nonsense, Marie, the poor little thing’s been worried by a dog, and it hasn’t had enough to eat, that’s all. I’m going to adopt it.”
And in spite of Marie’s protests she picked it up and wrapped it in her handkerchief, and carried it back to Florence, who was wriggling on her stretcher, and wishing that she hadn’t demanded that evidence of invalidism.
“Here, Florence,” said Winona, “hold this kitty till we get to the farmhouse.”
“Oh, a kitty! Poor little thing!” cried Florence, adopting the cat on the spot, and letting it cuddle down by her, which it was willing enough to do, for it seemed to be as tired as it was hungry.
“Are you sure——” began Marie again.