“I don’t so much as wink,” thought she. “I wish Prudy could see me now.”
But this unnatural stillness did not last long. Dotty very soon found that her companion had a slate, and she began to make pictures on it, swaying herself to and fro as she drew. Tate looked over Dotty’s shoulders, and watched the pictures as they grew. It puzzled her a little to guess what they were meant for; and, strange to say, the little artist was quite as much puzzled herself.
“What is this thing?” whispered she to Tate. “I made it for a cat; but then, I went and put feathers in the tail, and now I guess it’s a turkey.”
Tate wrinkled her forehead, and eyed the doubtful picture with a wise look.
“It ’pears to me,” replied she, hesitating,—“it ’pears to me more like a tea-pot.”
Now, whispering was against the rule, and Dotty knew it as well as Tate; but they both thought if they put their heads together, and spoke so low that no one else could hear, there was no harm in it. At any rate, so thought Tate, for she had done it so long that her conscience was hardened.
“I’m not whispering to you,” said she to Dotty; “I’m whispering to the slate.”
Dotty stared a little.