Mary Elizabeth understood—when did she not understand?
“Which one can I—which one can I?” she cried excitedly.
“All of ’em!” I shouted, and one after another we picked up the Eleven by their skirts, and we threw them far and wide in the grass, and the penny dolls we hurled into the potato patch.
Then Mary Elizabeth looked at me aghast.
“Your dolls!” she said.
“I don’t care!” I cried savagely. “I’ll never play ’em again. I hate ’em!” And I turned to Mary Elizabeth with new eyes. “Let’s go down town after supper,” I whispered.
“I could,” she said, “but you won’t be let.”
“I won’t ask,” I said. “I’ll go. When you get done, come on over.”
I scorned to gather up the dolls. They were in the angle below the parlour windows, and no one saw them. As soon as supper was finished, I went to my room and put on my best shoes, which I was not allowed to wear for everyday. Then I tipped my birthday silver dollar out of my bank and tied it in the corner of my handkerchief. Down in the garden I waited for Mary Elizabeth.
It was hardly dusk when she came. We had seen nothing of Delia, and we guessed that she was to stay in the house for the rest of the day as penance for having, without doubt, played “At Home” too badly.