“Yes, dearest, but, oh, my poor, foolish little Gretel, how could you do such a dreadful thing as to run away and leave us? Didn’t you know how much Percy and I loved you?”
“I thought you wouldn’t love me any more when you knew how wicked I had been,” said Gretel, humbly. “I thought I would go to the Lipheims, and ask Fritz to get me a place with those vaudeville people Peter Grubb was going with, but they had moved, and I couldn’t find them. Then it got so hot, and I was so dreadfully tired, and—”
“We know all about it, dear; don’t talk; just lie still and get well. We won’t leave you until you are able to come home, and then we shall all be so happy again.”
“And you are not angry—you really can forgive me?”
Barbara did not answer in words, but her kisses and her happy tears were all the assurance Gretel needed.
“And will Percy forgive me, too?” she whispered timidly.
“There isn’t anything to forgive, Pussy,” said Mr. Douane huskily, as he bent to kiss the pale, wistful little face.
“But I really was a dishonest person,” persisted Gretel, feverishly; “are you sure you want a dishonest person to live in your house?”
“Quite sure, little girl; home wouldn’t be home without our Gretel.”
Gretel gave a long sigh of utter content, and her eyelids drooped. In another moment she had fallen asleep.