“Why, Peggy!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean by wearing Paul’s coat a hot day like this?”
“Oh, Mamma,” cried Peg, her voice vibrant with excitement, “Paul put it on me to keep me from taking cold.”
“Taking cold, child? Why should you take cold? Here, let me see you.” She pulled the coat off the little girl and discovered her soaked condition. “Why, good heavens! What has happened to you? Where have you been? What does this mean, Paul?” she added severely, turning to Paul.
“She fell into the creek, Aunt Augusta. We were jumping our horses across, and Tubby slipped and fell in.”
“Oh, Mamma—” began Peg in high excitement.
“It was our fault, Aunt Augusta,” cut in Paul, meantime scowling heavily at Peg, hoping to check the exuberance of her recital. “Asa and I were jumping our horses across the stream, and Peggy tried and Tubby fell in.”
“Well, you ought to have known better, Paul. I trust Peggy to you, and you ought to take better care of her.”
“I know, Aunt Augusta, and—and—and I’m awfully sorry.”
“You have a right to be sorry,” said Aunt Augusta indignantly. “Well, get your horses away and come in to lunch. And take off those wet things. Come away, Peg. You are a foolish little thing.”
When Paul returned to the house after rubbing down the ponies and turning them loose in the paddock, he found Aunt Augusta’s mood quite changed, and he knew that Peggy must have told the whole story. Whether her recital had covered the story of his moral collapse remained an anxious uncertainty in his mind. He could only await developments.