"Oh, my!"
"I lost the butter-pat," observed Peletiah again, and standing over her.
"And I'm a-goin' to live here," declared Rachel, in a transport, and
wriggling in the sweet clover, "if I'm good. I'm goin' to be good all the
time. Yes, sir!"
"I lost the butter-pat," repeated Peletiah.
"Butter-pat?" Rachel caught the last words and sprang to her feet.
"Oh, yes, I forgot; we must hurry with the butter-pat. Come on!" and she
whirled around on Peletiah. "Why, where--?" as she saw his empty hands.
"I lost the butter-pat," said Peletiah. "I've been telling you so."
"No, you haven't," contradicted Rachel flatly.
"Yes, I have," said Peletiah stolidly.
"No such thing." Rachel squared up to him, her black eyes flashing. "You
haven't said a single word, you bad, wicked boy."
"Yes, I have," repeated Peletiah, ready to say it over for all time; "I've
told you so a great many times."
Rachel looked at him, and put up both hands. The only thing proper to do
under such circumstances was to shake him smartly, but it seemed so like
attacking a granite post, and besides, he was the minister's son, and she
was going to be good, else they must send her away (so Mrs. Fisher had
said), so her arms flopped down to her side, and hung there dismally. And
she burst out:
"Where did you lose it, you nin--? I mean--oh, dear me!--where, I
say?"--frowning impatiently.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148