We were very near the house, and she went in with me. Mother was in the kitchen, stewing apple-sauce for supper. I remember what a tired look she had on her face, and how wearily she stirred the apple-sauce, which was bubbling in the porcelain kettle.
"You speak now," whispered I to Fel. "You speak first."
This was asking a great deal of the dear little friend I had just called a lie-girl. If she hadn't loved me better, much better than I deserved, she would have turned and run away. As it was, she called up all her courage, the timid little thing, and fluttering up to my mother, gently poked the end of the parasol into the bow of her black silk apron.
"Please, O, please, Mrs. Parlin, do look and see how pretty it is."
That was as far as she could get for some time, till mother smiled and kissed her, and asked once or twice, "Well, dear, what is it?"
I ran into the shed and back again, too excited to stand still. Mother was always so tender of Fel, that I did think she couldn't refuse her. I was sure, at any rate, she would say as much as, "We will see about it, dear;" but instead of that she gave her an extra hug, and answered sorrowfully,—
"I wish I could buy Margaret a parasol; but really it is not to be thought of."
I dropped into the chip-basket, and cried.
"If she knew how to take care of her things perhaps I might, but it is wicked to throw away money."
"O, mamma, did you s'pose I'd let it fall in the hoss troth?" screamed I, remembering the fate of my last week's hat, with the green vine round it. "If you'll only give me a pairsol, mamma, I won't never carry it out to the barn, nor down to the river, nor anywhere 'n this world. I'll keep it in your bandbox, right side o' your bonnet, where there don't any mice come, or any flies, and never touch it, nor ask to see it, nor—"