“It’s no use your complaining to me about the rhyme!” said Mr. Shiner. “You must go to the man that made it.”
Fancy by this time had acquired confidence.
“Taste a bit, Mr. Dewy,” she said, holding up to him a small circular piece of honeycomb that had been the last in the row of layers, remaining still on her knees and flinging back her head to look in his face; “and then I’ll taste a bit too.”
“And I, if you please,” said Mr. Shiner. Nevertheless the farmer looked superior, as if he could even now hardly join the trifling from very importance of station; and after receiving the honeycomb from Fancy, he turned it over in his hand till the cells began to be crushed, and the liquid honey ran down from his fingers in a thin string.
Suddenly a faint cry from Fancy caused them to gaze at her.
“What’s the matter, dear?” said Dick.
“It is nothing, but O-o! a bee has stung the inside of my lip! He was in one of the cells I was eating!”
“We must keep down the swelling, or it may be serious!” said Shiner, stepping up and kneeling beside her. “Let me see it.”
“No, no!”
“Just let me see it,” said Dick, kneeling on the other side: and after some hesitation she pressed down her lip with one finger to show the place. “O, I hope ’twill soon be better! I don’t mind a sting in ordinary places, but it is so bad upon your lip,” she added with tears in her eyes, and writhing a little from the pain.