"No, I shan't tell if you'll give it to me. And you may have one of the roses in your button-hole, Johnny. That's the way the Pickings man had, that wrote Little Nell; father said so. There's a good boy, now!"
Dotty dropped her voice to a milder key, and smiled as sweetly as the bitterness of her feelings would permit. She had set her heart on the toy, and her white slippers, and even her gold necklace, dwindled into nothing in comparison.
"Whose mother owns this bouquet-holder, I'd like to know?" said Johnny, flourishing it above his head. "And whose father brought home the flowers from the green-house?"
"Well, any way, Johnny, 'twas my aunt and uncle, you know; and they'd be willing, 'cause your mamma let me have her necklace 'thout my asking."
"I can't help it if they're both as willing as two peas," cried Johnny.
"I'm not willing myself, and that's enough."
"O, what a boy! I was going to put some of my nightly blue sirreup on your hangerjif, and now I won't—see if I do!"
"I don't want anybody's sirup," retorted Johnny; "'tic'ly such a cross party's as you are."
"Johnny Eastman, you just stop murdering me."
"Murdering you?"
"Yes; 'he that hateth his brother.'"