"Cross my heart!" vowed Willie Jones, suiting action to word.
"Oh, you darlint!" Effie cried, opening her arms to gather in her repentant child. Then she stopped in concern. "What's ailin' yir finger?"
"Stung!" Margery quavered. "But don't mind that, Effie. It don't hurt much now. It's my stummick! Ugh! Ugh! I'm just dying to thr'up! Please get the hot water and things, quick!"
"And are you feelin' sick, you poor lamb," Effie crooned, compassionately, as she rushed about making preparations. "Now, dearie——"
"Effie, make Willie Jones go out first."
"Whoop!" shouted Effie, turning upon Willie with brandished arms.
"Wait, Effie, wait a minute! Tell him when his mother pays him, he can bring over my nickel, and if I'm not here he can give it to you."
"Do you hear that, now?" Effie demanded roughly, pushing Willie out by the shoulder and closing the door.
"Now, then, darlint, just drink this down. That's right. Drink it all. Now swally yir little hand. That's right. That's right. Oh, now yir goin' a-feel fine! Now ye'll soon be a well girl. Once again. That's right. That's right. . . . It's just a good thing to get rid of all that nasty old stuff, ain't it, now? . . ."
When this part of Margery's illness was attended to, Effie bathed her finger, extracted the sting, and in a short time had her feeling delightfully convalescent.