"Why, you know, Jennie Vance; in the mud."

"Well, there wasn't any mud; 'twas as hard as a nut."

"You know what I mean, Jennie," exclaimed Dotty, growing excited. "So you needn't pretend!"

"I'm not pretending, nor any such a thing," replied Jennie, with a great show of candor; "it's you that are making up a story, Dotty Dimple. I didn't say I'd give you my ring. No, ma'am; if 'twas the last words I was to speak, I never!"

"O, Jennie Vance! Jane Sidney Vance! I should think the thunder and lightning would conduct you to pieces this minute; and a bear out of the woods, and every thing else in this world. I never saw a little girl, that had a father named Judge, that would lie so one to another in all the days of my life."

"Well," said Jennie, coolly, "if you've got done your preaching, I'll tell you what I said. I said, 'What if I should;' so there! I didn't say I would, and I never meant to; and you may ask my father if I can get it off my finger without sawing the bone in two."

"Indeed!" replied Dotty, poising her head backward with queenly dignity; "indeed!"

"I didn't tell a story," said Jennie, uneasily. "I should think any goosie might know people wouldn't give away jewels just for putting your foot out."

"It's just as well," said Dotty, with extreme dignity; "just _precisely_ as well! I have one grandmamma who is a Quakeress, and she don't think much of little girls that wear rings. Ahem!"

Jennie felt rather uncomfortable. She did not mind Dotty's anger, but her quiet contempt was another thing.

"I think likely I may go to Boston next week," said she; "and if I do, this is the last time we shall go strawberrying together this summer."

"O, is it?" said Dotty.

After this the two little creatures trudged on in silence till they reached Mr. Parlin's gate. Jennie ran home in great haste as soon as she was free from her limping companion; and Dotty entered the side-door dripping like a naiad.

"Why, Alice Parlin!" said grandmamma, in dismay; "how came you in such a plight? We never thought of you being out in this shower. We supposed, of course, you would go to Mrs. Gray's, and wait till it was over."

"We were nowhere near Mr. Gray's," faltered Dotty, "nor anywhere else, either."

"I should think you had been standing under a water-spout," said Aunt Louise.

"Grandma, can't you put her through the wringer?" asked Prudy, laughing.

Dotty sank in a wet heap on the floor, and held up her ailing foot with a groan.

"Why, child, barefoot?" cried Aunt Louise. Dotty said nothing, but frowned with pain.

"It is a cruel thorn," said her good grandmother, putting on her spectacles and surveying the wound.

"Yes, 'm," said Dotty, finding her tongue. "I almost thought 'twould go clear through, and come out at the top of my foot."

Katie took a peep. "No, it didn't," said she; "it hided."

"There, there, poor little dear," said grandmother; "we'll put her right to bed. Ruthie, don't you suppose you and I can carry her up stairs?"

Not a word yet about the naughtiness; but plenty of pity and soft poultices for the wounded foot.

"She's a very queer child," thought Ruth, coming down stairs afterwards to steep hops for some beer; "a very odd child. She has something on her mind; but _we_ shan't be any the wiser till she gets ready to tell it."

CHAPTER VI.

MAKING POETRY.

But when Prudy had come to bed, Dotty could talk more freely.

"O, dear," said she, hiding her face in her sister's bosom; "I don't want them to laugh at me, but I've lost my boots and my basket, and been dripped in the rain, and got a thorn in my foot too, till it seems as if I should die!"

"But you'll never do so again, little sister," said Prudy, who could think of no other consolation to give.

"And lightning besides, Prudy! And she made me throw away my beautiful picnic basket, and she kept hers, and it never hurt her a bit! Don't you think she was just as mean! What makes grandma let me go with her, do you s'pose? I shall grow real bad! Won't you tell her to stop it?"

Dotty moaned with pain, and between her moans she talked very fast.

"And all this time," said she, "we haven't any ducks!"

Prudy, who was dropping off to sleep, murmured, "No."

"But it's real too bad, Prudy. I never saw such a lazy old hen--did you?

Prudy, _did_ you?"

Presently, when Prudy thought it must be nearly morning, there was a clutch upon her shoulder, and a voice cried in her ear,--

"I don't see what makes you go to sleep, Prudy Parlin, when my foot aches so bad! And O, how I want a drink o' water!"

Prudy thought she should never find the match-box; but she did at last, and lighted the lamp after several trials. It was dreary work, though, going down stairs with those sticks in her eyes, to get the water.

Dotty drained the nipperkin at two draughts, and said it wasn't half enough.

"O, you shall have all you want, little sister," said Prudy, kindly; "you may drink up the whole barrel if you like."

So down she went again, and this time brought a pitcher. On her return she found Dotty weeping in high displeasure.

"You told me to drink up that whole barrel, you did," cried the unreasonable child, shaking her head.

"Did I?" said Prudy; "well, dear, I didn't mean anything."

"But you _said_ so--the whole, whole barrel," repeated Dotty rocking back and forth; "you talk to me just as if I--was--black!"

"Hush!" said Prudy, "or you'll wake grandma. Let me see; do you want me to tell you a conundrum? Why does an elephant carry his trunk?"

"I don't know; I s'pose he can't help it; it grows on the end of his nose."

"That isn't the answer, though, Dotty; it's because--because he's a traveller!"