“We—we’ve run away,” said Carolyn May at last. She could be nothing but frank; it was her nature.
“Run away!” repeated the pretty woman. “You don’t mean that?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have. And Prince. From Uncle Joe and Aunty Rose,” Carolyn May assured her, nodding her head with each declaration.
“Oh, my dear! What for?” asked Miss Amanda.
So Carolyn May told her—and with tears.
Meanwhile the woman came into the yard and sat beside the child on the step. With her arm about the little girl, Miss Amanda snuggled her up close, wiping the tears away with her own handkerchief.
“I just can’t have poor Prince drownd-ed,” Carolyn May sobbed. “I’d want to be drownd-ed myself, too.”
“I know, dear. But do you really believe your Uncle Joseph would do such a thing? Would he drown your dog?”
“I-I saw him putting the stones in the bag,” sobbed Carolyn May. “And he said he would.”
“But he said it when he was angry, dear. We often say things when we are angry—more’s the pity!—which we do not mean, and for which we are bitterly sorry afterwards. I am sure, Carolyn May, that your Uncle Joe has no intention of drowning your dog.”