"Scoldings don't last very long, anyway," urged Tommy, consolingly.
"But if you sort o' think you oughtn't to have done things, and did ought to be more careful—and everything—it makes it seem more worse, you know," remarked Nannie, in a hesitating, half-penitent way. "'Cause I do like Aunt S'mantha."
"Yes," admitted Tommy, knitting his brow over the complications of the case, and searching his own experience for a suggestion of relief. "If you only had something nice to carry home to her—something she wants. Once I got wet as a rat playing round the pond, but I'd caught two fish—reg'lar tip-top trout—and I took 'em home to mother; held 'em up where they'd be seen first thing, you know. And she said, 'What nice fish!' and didn't scold a wink."
"I couldn't catch anything if I tried a week, and Aunt S'mantha wouldn't care, anyway. Why, she's a real grown-up woman, and could have tea-parties and make molasses candy every day if she wanted to! I don't believe she wants anything, unless it's ban—bananas—whatever that is. I heard her say she'd like some, this morning."
"Bandanas?" questioned Tommy, with brightening eyes.
"Y-e-s, I guess so," answered Nannie, rather doubtfully.
"Ho! I know what they are as well as anything. Why, they're silk handkerchiefs—red and yellow, with spots on 'em."
Nannie's hand dived into her small pocket, and re-appeared with two nickels and a copper.
"Do you guess I could buy one at Carney's store for 'leven cents? 'Cause I haven't got any more."
"I s'pose so. Why, yes; handkerchiefs a'nt much 'count, you know. I always lose mine—only they a'nt bandanas. I guess women-folks think more about 'em, though," said Tommy, with the air of one superior to such trifles.