Ethel meant just this, no more, no less. She was sorry; still, if she had done wrong so had Kittyleen; if she needed forgiveness Kittyleen needed it also.
“Now, put something in the corner,” said she, looking on anxiously, as Mary directed the envelope. “You always put something in the corner of your notes, Flaxie; I’ve seen you, and seen you.”
“Do I? Oh yes, sometimes I put ‘kindness of Ethel’ in the corner, but that is when you carry the note.”
“Put it there now.”
“But are you going to carry the note?”
“No, Dodo will carry it if I give her five kisses.”
“Then, I’ll write ‘Kindness of Dora.’”
“No, no, I’m the one that’s kind, not Dodo,” insisted the child.
And “Kindness of Ethel” it had to be in the corner in large, plain letters.