Fanny, putting on her bonnet, went out to look for Norman. To her surprise, after searching about for some time, she saw him digging, as she thought, on his plot of ground.
“Oh, I am so glad that he is trying to amuse himself in that way,” she said to herself, “he will now learn to like gardening, I hope.”
On reaching the spot, however, she stood aghast, for Norman, instead of working in his own part of the ground, was digging away in hers, and had already uprooted nearly all her beautiful flowers.
“I am going to put them into my ground,” he said, when he caught sight of her, “I do not see why you should have them all to yourself.”
“But, my dear Norman, they will not bear transplanting,” she answered, almost bursting into tears, as she surveyed the havoc he had committed, for many of her flowers were not only dug up, but broken and trampled on, and it was evident that he intended rather to destroy than remove them.
“Oh, do stop, Norman!” she cried out, “the gardener promised, you know, to put some flowers into your garden, and he knows how to do it properly.”
“He may do as he likes,” said Norman, throwing down his spade; “I have taught you a lesson, Miss Selfish, your garden is not much better than mine now.”
Fanny could no longer restrain her tears.
“O Norman!” she exclaimed, “it was not from selfishness I did not plant your garden, but I thought you would like to do it yourself, and that you would find pleasure in seeing flowers spring up which you had put in. Indeed, indeed, Norman, you accuse me wrongfully.”
“Well, at all events, we are even now,” growled out the boy, walking up and down, and it is to be hoped feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, as he surveyed the mischief he had done.