“I don’t know.”
“And neither don’t I; only P’R’APS they do, and p’r’aps that’s snow.”
“The Bible don’t say so,” said Tate, “and besides, they wouldn’t play hard enough.”
“O, but the angels have such tender wings,” said Dotty, confidently. “Now, if you had ’em on your back, and I should hit you just so—not hard a bit—how the feathers would fly!”
To make her meaning clear, Dotty gave Tate’s shoulder a gentle pat, which would have done no harm if Tate had not been resting on one foot; but as she was, and the floor just in that spot was slippery, she fell against a desk, and made her nose bleed. She used first her own handkerchief, then Dotty’s, till both were drenched, and Dotty had a wild impulse to offer her the pockets of her wrapper.
“O, dear, I’m so sorry, Tate Penny! Your nose is just like an inkstand; every time anybody touches it, it tips over.”
“It isn’t any matter,” whispered Tate, “only I shall bleed the floor, and bleed my dress. I want to go home, and haven’t any apron on.”
“Here, take my slate, Tate Penny, and the sponge, too, while I ask Miss Parker if I mayn’t go home with you.”