Katie took a peep. "No, it didn't," said she; "it hided."
"There, there, poor little dear," said grandmother; "we'll put her right to bed. Ruthie, don't you suppose you and I can carry her up stairs?"
Not a word yet about the naughtiness; but plenty of pity and soft poultices for the wounded foot.
"She's a very queer child," thought Ruth, coming down stairs afterwards to steep hops for some beer; "a very odd child. She has something on her mind; but we shan't be any the wiser till she gets ready to tell it."
CHAPTER VI.
MAKING POETRY.
But when Prudy had come to bed, Dotty could talk more freely.
"O, dear," said she, hiding her face in her sister's bosom; "I don't want them to laugh at me, but I've lost my boots and my basket, and been dripped in the rain, and got a thorn in my foot too, till it seems as if I should die!"
"But you'll never do so again, little sister," said Prudy, who could think of no other consolation to give.