"Didn't mean to do it, eh?" replied Aunt Deborah, fiercely. "I suppose the stone picked itself up and pitched itself through my glass!"
"I was going to throw it down the street, but Bill Philper touched my arm, and it turned and hit your window," he explained.
There was an air of frankness and truth about the boy, and the fact that he had not run away like the others (whom, somehow, Aunt Deborah held chiefly responsible for the outrage), caused her to relent a little toward him.
"Come in here," she said, after eying him closely for a moment.
The lad hesitated; but summoning all his courage, he went up the steps, and soon stood in her presence.
"Do you see that" she said, pointing at the window—"and that"—(at the cabinet)—"and that?"—(at the broken vase)—"and that?"—(at the stone.) "Now, isn't that a fine performance?"
"I am very sorry," said the boy, the tears welling into his eyes again.
He looked ruefully about at the damaged articles, and glanced at the stone, wishing heartily that he had never seen it.
"Now, what's to be done about it?" asked she.
"I don't know, ma'am," said he, very ill at ease. "I will try to pay you for it."