“Kind of like Adam,” said little Anne, absent-mindedly. “Then what can you do, Peter-two?”
“Bear it,” said Peter through his closed teeth.
It had such a fearful ring that little Anne began to cry softly.
“Oh, Peter-two, Peter-two,” she moaned. “I honest-to-goodness didn’t mean to be wicked. I just wanted to make you mad, ’cause you said I couldn’t. And oh, dear, oh, dear, I did, I did! Don’t you think you could forgive me, Peter, when I’m so awful sorry and confessed, and give you my book for repar—resti—making up? Couldn’t you forgive me, not anyway at all, Peter-two?”
“You’re spoiled,” said Peter, sternly, not hard-heartedly precisely, but with a sense of obligation to make the most of this opportunity. “I’ve said all along you were dreadfully spoiled, and you are. You’re getting worse, Anne, and this was pretty bad. It won’t hurt you to do penance.”
“All right, Peter-two,” said little Anne, swallowing her rising sobs. “Wha—what’ll I do?”
“Oh, I don’t care what you do! Think of the harm you’ve done. Go sit in a tree, or stand in the river. I don’t care what you do! I’m sick of the whole business, and I’m going to get some gingerbread and study. Go on and let me alone.”
Little Anne looked at him with mournful dark eyes; the hollows which so quickly showed below them deep and dark.
“Before I go, Peter-two,” she said, softly, “won’t you please, please kiss me and tell me you’ll forgive me by and by, after my penance?”
“Anne, I’ve told you not to bother me!” Peter spoke in a sternly parental tone. “Certainly I shall not kiss you; why should I, when you’ve put me in such a position? I will decide about forgiving you when I see whether or not you mean to behave yourself in the future.”