“Yes’m; my screw-up pencil.”
“Are you perfectly sure?”
“Yes, mamma; my pocket was next to her, and there’s where I put my pencil.”
“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Parlin. “Your pocket’s being next to a person doesn’t prove that that person has put his hand in it.”
“But if she didn’t, papa, who did?”
“I don’t know, my daughter; perhaps nobody. How would you like it if Lina should say she knew you stole her mittens, just because they happened to be hanging on a nail beside your cloak?”
“But, papa, I shouldn’t want to steal her mittens; they’re all full of holes!”
Mr. Parlin said nothing more just then. It was so hard to reason with the little girl, that one was obliged to choose one’s words with care.
“In the very first place, Dotty,” said her mother, “do you know you have lost the pencil? Perhaps it is laid away in a book, or in your desk, or there may be a hole in your pocket.”
“No, mamma; it isn’t anywhere at all, for I’ve looked in all those places, and there’s no hole in my pocket, either. Lina was the one that took it, ’cause she liked that pencil.”