“Well, I shouldn’t, not if Tate hadn’t! ’Twas wicked; ’twas lying one to another, mamma; but Tate has done it five hundred million times! She’s a worse girl’n I am. O, dear me!”
“I cannot stop now to talk of Tate Penny,” said Mrs. Parlin; “we must attend first to Dotty Dimple.”
“Yes’m. I knew you’d ’tend to me. I don’t b’lieve Tate’s mother ’tends to her. I don’t s’pect Tate knows much about the Bible, p’raps. Isn’t it awful?”
Dotty picked away at the tidy on the back of the chair with an air of unconcern; but Mrs. Parlin observed that her mouth was twitching at the corners.
“Dotty!”
“Yes’m.”
“You seem very anxious to set Tate Penny right. She has told a wrong story: what ought she to do about it?”
Dotty hung her head.
“Don’t you know?”
“Yes’m.”