"She's told Cyrus to kill the—the white turkey!" continued Jason, with almost a break in his voice.
"To kill Priscilla!" gasped Minty. "She couldn't—she wouldn't! Oh, Jason, Cyrus won't do it, will he?"
"Hasn't he got to if she says so?" demanded Jason grimly.
"But Priscilla is yours," said Minty stoutly.
"She says she only let me call her mine. Just as if I didn't save her out of that weak brood when all the rest were killed by the thunderstorm! And brought her up in cotton behind the kitchen stove, no matter how much Clorinda scolded! And found her nest with thirty-one eggs in it in the old pine stump! And she knows me and follows me round."
"I shouldn't think Aunt Kittredge would want to," said Minty reflectively.
"She wants a big turkey, because the minister and his daughter are coming to dinner, and she doesn't want to have one of the young ones killed, because she is too stin—"
"I wouldn't care if I were you. After all, Priscilla is only a turkey," said Minty, attempting to be cheerful.
But this well-meant effort at consolation aroused Jason's wrath. "That's just like a girl!" he cried. "What do you care if you only have blue beads and lots of candy?"
Poor Minty's face lengthened again, and her jaw fell. "There's my two dollars and thirty cents, Jason," she said anxiously.