"Div her a pill, I would," said Ned, laughing. He could laugh, for he didn't have to sit and hold her, as I did.
"Poor little thing isn't well," said mother.
"I don't 'spect she knows whether's she's well or not," returned I, in disgust. "She just hates everybody, and that's what she's crying about."
"You grieve me, Madge. I thought you loved this dear sister."
"Well, I did; but I don't love her any more, and I don't ever want to rock a baby that hates me so hard she can't keep her mouth shut."
"You don't mean you are not glad God sent her? O, Madge!"
"Yes'm, that's what I mean. I'm real sorry he sent her, and I wish he'd take her back again."
Hasty, bitter speech! Even a child knows better than to talk so recklessly. Next day, and for many days, those words came back to my heart like sharp knives. Little sister was very ill, and I knew by the looks of people's faces that they thought she would cross the dark river, on the other side of which stand the pearly gates. Mother saw me roving about the house, crying in corners, and sent me away to the Allens to stay all night. When I got there, Madam Allen took me right up in her motherly arms, and tried to soothe me; but I refused to be comforted.
"I thought baby looked a little better this morning," said she.
I shook my head.