“No, she won’t. I’ll send out and buy another one.”
“Oh, you can’t. The servants are not allowed to run errands for the young ladies without permission from Mrs. Moodie. You will have to tell Miss Sharpe.”
“Well, come along then; I’ll tell her. Did you bring the string?”
“Yes, here it is. Oh, Miss Lawless! I am exceedingly sorry.”
“Well—my goodness! you needn’t be. An old blue pitcher! I used to throw half a dozen of them, every day, at the servants, at home, and nobody ever made a fuss about it. A common old blue pitcher—humph!”
“Oh! but it was different at home. They were your own, there; and Miss Sharpe is so—queer. She will scold you dreadfully.”
“Well, so will I, then—there! I can scold as long and as loud as she can, I reckon. An old blue pitcher! Humph! Wish to gracious I had smashed the whole set, and made one job of it.”
By this time they had reached the play-ground; and making her way through the crowd, Pet marched resolutely up to Miss Sharpe, and confronted that lady with an expression as severe as though she were about to have her arrested for high treason.
“Miss Sharpe, look here!” she began. “I’ve been upstairs and smashed an old blue pitcher. There!”
“What!” said Miss Sharpe, knitting her brows, and rather at a loss.