“Now what does make you act so?” asked Milly, as soon as tea was over.
“‘Got a cricket in my neck;
Can’t move it a single speck,’”
replied Flaxie, not knowing she had made poetry, till Johnny, who was supposed to be ever so far off, began to laugh; and then she moved her neck fast enough, and shook her head, and stamped her foot.
“Let’s go in the nursery, so Johnny can’t plague you,” said the peace-loving Milly. “I’m so sorry you’re sick.”
Flaxie had not meant to speak, but she could not help talking to Milly.
“Wish I’se at home,” said she, reproachfully, “’cause my mamma keeps pepmint.”
“Why, Flaxie, my mamma keeps it too. We’ve got lots and lots of it in the cupboard.”
“Don’t care if you have,” snapped Flaxie. “I just despise pepmint. It’s something else I want, and can’t think of the name of; but I know you don’t keep it, for your papa isn’t a doctor!”
It was not the first time Flaxie had wounded her sweet cousin’s feelings by this same cutting remark.
“Dr. Papa keeps tittlish powders in blue and white papers, and one of the papers buzzes. I guess he’d give me that, but I don’t know,” added Flaxie, crying again harder than ever, though the tears fell like fire on her poor, sore cheeks.