Mrs. G. Well, I declare, I don't see the harm in eating pickles. My girls eat their weight in 'em, and they're just as sweet-tempered as—
Miss P. Their mother. Mrs. Gabble, it is not a question of harm, but of obedience, here. You see, the young ladies accept me as their guardian, and I only forbid that which I think their parents would not approve.
Mrs. G. And there's my washing in the suds! Where's my Sis.
Enter Sissy Gabble, l., with a large slice of bread, covered with molasses.
Sissy. Here I ith, mother. Mith Peath thed I might have thumthin, and I like bread, and 'latheth.
Juno. Bress my soul! dat are chile jest runnin' over with sweetness, sure for sartin.
Mrs. G. Yes; and the 'lasses running all over the clothes! Come, Sissy, let's go home. I'm sorry, Miss Pease, you don't like pickles; and I'm sorry, young ladies, they disagree with you. And I'm sorry, Miss Pease, I left my washing.
Miss P. Now don't be sorry at all, Mrs. Gabble. I'm always glad to see you. Your gift was well-intended, and the young ladies have suffered no harm, perhaps received a wholesome lesson.
Sadie. I think we have. I shall be very careful what I touch.