One day I saw Miss Wilful going to play with a dog, with which I knew it was not proper for her to meddle; and I said. Let that dog alone.
Why? said Miss—I play with Wag, and I play with Phillis, and why may I not play with Pompey.
I made her no answer—but thought she might feel the reason soon.
Now the dog had been ill-used by a girl, who was so naughty as to make a sport of holding meat to his mouth and snatching it away again; which made him take meat roughly, and always be surly to girls.
Soon after Miss stole to the dog, held out her hand as if she had meat for him, and then snatched it away again. The creature resented this treatment, and snapped at her fingers. When I met her crying, with her hand wrapped in a napkin. “So,” said I, “you have been meddling with the dog! Now you know why I bade you let Pompey alone.”
Little Steady. Did she not think you were unkind not to pity her? I thought—do not be displeased, father—but I thought it was strange that you did not comfort her.
Mr. Steady. You know that her hand was not very much hurt, and the wound had been dressed when I met her.
Little Steady. Yes, father, but she was so sorry!
Mr. Steady. She was not so sorry for her fault, as for its consequences.
Little Steady. What, father?