"I—I thought it was Minnie's birthday cake. I—I just dec'rated it."
"Just decorated it! What for? What business had you to touch it? That was pure mischief and nothing else. She intended making a spray of roses and green leaves on that cake and now you've spoiled it. Go sit down in your little chairs and stay there until noon. For fear you will forget about staying there, I shall tie you in."
"Oh, Gail, as if we were little kids!"
"That is what you are when you meddle with things that don't belong to you. I have talked until I am tired. You don't pay a bit of attention, so I must punish you some other way. Next time I shall send you to bed. Perhaps I better do that today."
"Oh, Gail," sobbed miserable Peace, "I didn't mean to be bad, truly! I thought Faith would like some new way to dec'rate her cakes. I—please don't send us to bed! I'm awful sorry! Allee isn't to blame! She tried to make me leave it alone, didn't you, Babe?"
"Yes," hiccoughed the equally penitent, but loyal young sinner, "and then I helped dig up the rivers and pile on the mountains!"
Gail's face relaxed a little; a great tenderness for these little orphan sisters swept through her heart, and she felt herself relenting. Then Faith's tragic despair rose before her inner vision again, and she hardened her heart, drew out some stout cord from the cupboard drawer, and tied the humiliated duet into their rickety, worn-out old rockers, leaving them to their unhappy thoughts while she went back to her work upstairs.
For a long time, it seemed to them, they sat jogging back and forth in the warm kitchen, mournfully dabbing their eyes and sniffing tearfully. Then Peace sat up, drew a deep, quivering breath, and said decisively, "I'm going to take that cake over to Mrs. Grinnell's—"
"Gail said we had to stay here until noon," quavered Allee.
"She said we had to sit in these chairs till then," Peace corrected.