Floy remained demurely silent, smiling to herself at the thought of how those dear adopted parents always humored her every madcap whim.
“Said Brier-Rose’s mother to the naughty Brier-Rose:
‘Whatever will become of you the Lord Almighty knows!
You will not scrub the kettles, and you will not touch the broom,
You never sit a minute still at spinning-wheel or loom!’
“And oft the maiden cried when Brier-Rose went by:
‘You can not knit a stocking, you can not make a pie!’
But Brier-Rose, as was her wont, she cocked a curly head,
‘But I can sing a pretty song,’ full merrily she said.”
“But,” continued the speaker, “after that came your sensational plunge into the water, frightening every one out of their wits. When the funny farce of saving you was over, and I went back for dry clothes, that telegram drove everything else out of my mind for awhile—even you,” tenderly.