Now, Dotty Dimple, I declare to you that this conversation is sweeter to my memory than "a nest of nightingales." Naughty as I was, Fel didn't know I was naughty!
When I went home next morning, the little Louise was much better, and in a few days seemed as well as ever. I was very thankful God knew I was not in earnest, and had not taken me at my word, and called her back to heaven.
She was never quite as cross from that time, and I had many happy hours with her, though, as I told Fel,—
"She's cross enough now, and sometimes seems 's if I couldn't forgive her; but I always do; I don't dass not to!"
I was not required to hold her very much, for Fel was not well, and wanted me with her half the time. Mother was always willing I should go, and never said,—
"Don't you think you ought to be pacifying the baby?"
I never dreamed that Fel was really sick. I only knew she grew sweeter every day, and clung to me more and more. I had stopped teasing her long ago, and tried to make her happy. I couldn't have said a cross word to her that winter any more than I could have crushed a white butterfly.
One day I was going to see her, with some jelly in my little basket, when "the Polly woman" walked mournfully into the yard.
"I've just come from Squire Allen's," said she, unfastening her shawl, and sighing three times,—once for every pin.
"And how is Fel?" asked mother.