"Where do you suppose I've been?"
"We can't suppose on such a question; it is impossible. I desire you to tell us."
"And if I don't, guardy?"
She looked up at him rather defiantly—seated on a low stool, her elfish chin in her elfish hand, her pretty little rose-bloom face peeping brightly out from the scented yellow curls.
"Mollie!"
"Guardy, see here: it's of no use getting cross. I can't tell you where I've been, because I don't know myself."
"Mollie!"
"It's true as preaching, guardy. You know I don't tell fibs—except in fun. I don't know where I was, and so I can't tell you, and I'd a good deal rather you wouldn't ask me."
"Mollie!"
"Oh, what's the use of Mollieing?" cried the young lady, waxing impatient. "I was taken somewhere, and I don't know where—'pon my word and honor, I don't—and I was kept a prisoner in a nasty room, by people I don't know, to punish me for flirting, I was told; and when I was there two weeks, and punished sufficiently, Heaven knows, I was fetched home. Guardy, there's everything I know or can tell you about the matter. Now, please be good, and don't bother with tiresome questions."