“You oughtn’t to say ‘Never mind,’” pursued Prudy: “my mother tells me always to mind.”
“I only mean it isn’t any matter, Prudy.”
“Oh! do you? Then don’t you care for my skeeter-bites? You always say, ‘Never mind!’ I didn’t know it wasn’t any matter.”
“Now, ma,” Grace went on, “I want to ask you where are those I-don’t-know-what-to-call-’ems? And may I copy them, Cassy and I, into a book, for a certain afflicted relative?”
“Yes, yes, on gold-edged paper!” cried Prudy, springing up from the sofa; “oh, do, do; I’ll love you dearly if you will! Fairy stories are just as nice! What little Harvey Sherwood likes, I like, and I’ve had the measles; but I shouldn’t think his father and mother’d wear their hat and bonnet to the dinner-table!”
“Deary me!” laughed Grace; “how happened that little thing to mistrust what I meant?”
“It would be strange if a child of her age, of ordinary abilities, should not understand,” remarked Mrs. Clifford, somewhat amused. “Next time you wish to ask me any thing confidentially, I advise you to choose a better opportunity.”
“When may she, Aunt ’Ria?” cried Prudy, entirely forgetting her troubles; “when may she write it, Aunt ’Ria, she and Cassy?”
“A pretty piece of folly it would be, wouldn’t it, dear, when you can’t read a word of writing?”
“But Susy can a little, auntie; and mother can a great deal: and I’ll never tease ’em, only nights when I go to bed, and days when I don’t feel well. Please, Aunt ’Ria.”