“Ye—s,” answered Dotty, “only my face is all burning a-fire, trying to keep from laughing.”
“P’r’aps it’s queer,” said Tate; “but isn’t she a darling?”
Dotty did not answer, and Johnny gave her a sly pinch on the arm, with a very comical look about his mouth.
“And you’re going to tell your mamma you like the school, and ask her if you mayn’t come, so you can sit with me, Dotty Dimple?”
Dotty was about to say, “Yes, I’ll ask her;” for she thought, “I can do it ’way down in my throat, so she’ll know I don’t want to go—But, no; it’s wicked to deceive Tate.”
“You’re going to ask your mother?” repeated Tate.
“Bommernibble, bommernibble, bommernibble!” whispered Dotty, forgetting the word, but remembering her promise. Then she felt quite brave, and said aloud,—
“No, Tate; I’d like to sit with you forever and always; but I shan’t ask my mother; ’cause I like Miss Parker the best. Miss Parker isn’t crazy, and she isn’t a nidiot!”
“Nor my auntie isn’t, either,” said Tate, ready to cry.