“You must run after us. We can wait no longer, children,” he called. Leila was already half-way downstairs.
Chrissie gave a frantic rush round the room again, scrambling under the beds, pushing aside chairs and tables in search of her book, but all in vain. And even if she had dared to take her sister’s “best one,” she was not sure where to look for it. It would have needed time to find.
“I must go,” she thought, “whatever happens.” So she dashed off—narrowly escaping falling downstairs in her hurry.
The others had all started, but the hall-door was left slightly ajar, and that of the drawing-room stood wide open, and as she ran past it, a sudden idea struck the child.
“I’ll take Aunt Margaret’s prayer-book,” she thought. “It’s just about the same size as mine, and if I keep it open nobody will see any difference, unless Lell perhaps, and she surely wouldn’t be so mean as to tell, after being so ill-natured to me.”
No sooner said than done, and in another minute Chrissie was racing down the street, book in hand, to overtake the family party, just turning the corner.
Leila glanced at her.
“You’ve found it, then?” she whispered, for Chrissie took care to hold the book so that its cover did not show. She made no reply, and Leila’s face darkened.
“If you’ve taken mine after all,” she said threateningly, though still in a low voice, “I’ll—”
“I haven’t, then,” said Chrissie, “I wouldn’t touch a thing of yours, you mean creature.”