Mary parted the branches of her tree and watched, but made no sound.
"Mary," repeated the oncoming relative, "Mary, I want to tell you something," and added as she spied her niece's abandoned sunbonnet on the grass, "I know you're here and I shall wait until you come to me."
"I ain't coming," announced the Dryad, and thereby disclosed her position, both actual and mental. "I suppose it's something I've done and I don't want to hear it, so there!" Then, her temper having been worn thin by much admonishing, she anticipated: "I ain't sorry I've been bad. I ain't ashamed to behave so when my mamma is sick in bed. And I don't care if you do tell my papa when he comes home to-night."
The intruding relative, discerning her, stopped and smiled. And the smile was as a banderilla to her niece's goaded spirit.
"Jiminy!" gasped that young person, "she's got a smile just like a teacher."
"Mary, dear," the intruder gushed, "God has sent you something."
The hickory flashed forth black and white and red. Mary stood upon the ground.
"Where are they?" she demanded.
"They?" repeated the lady. "There is only one."
"Why, I prayed for two. Which did he send?"