“Oh, please, dear Joan!” she cried, holding her back by the apron strings.  “Fudge isn’t the most to blame.  I took Angelina.  I s’pose he pulled off the wig and broke the arm, but I pushed the eyes in; didn’t mean to, though—­was only trying to make them open and shut.  Tilderee’s so sorry, Joan!”

The explanation ended with a contrite sob and what Mr. Prentiss called “a sun shower.”  But the sight of the child’s tears, instead of appeasing, only irritated Joan the more.  Giving her a smart shake, she said excitedly: 

“Tilderee Prentiss, you’re a naughty, naughty girl!  I wish you didn’t live here.  I wish mother had let you go with the lady at the Fort who wanted to adopt you.  I wish I hadn’t any little sister at all!”

Tilderee stopped crying, and stood gazing at the angry girl in astonishment; then, swallowing a queer lump that came in her throat, she drew herself up with a baby dignity which would have been funny but for the pathetic expression of her sweet face, as she lisped slowly:  “Very well.  P’rhaps some day Tilderee’ll go away and never come back again!”

She turned and went into the house, with Fudge at her heels.  As he passed Joan his tail, which had drooped in shame at his conduct, erected itself defiantly, and he uttered a growl of protest.

Joan remained disconsolately hugging and weeping over the ill-fated Angelina.  But, somehow, she did not feel any better for having yielded to her anger.  “Tilderee deserved a good scolding,” she said to herself over and over again.  Still there was a weight upon her heart, not caused by the ruin of the doll; for, notwithstanding all the excuses she could muster, her conscience reproached her for those unkind, bitter words.  After a while, remembering that she had been cautioned not to let Tilderee out of her sight, she started to look for her.  The culprit was soon discovered in the corner of the kitchen cupboard, which she called-her “cubby-house,” engaged in lecturing Fudge for running away with Angelina.

“Never meddle with what does not belong to you!” she said, laying down the law with her mite of a forefinger; and, to make her words more impressive, giving him an occasional tap on the nose.  He listened dutifully, as if he were the sole transgressor; but interrupted the homily now and then by lapping the hand of his little mistress with his tiny red tongue, as a token of the perfect understanding between them.

When they looked up and saw Joan, both glanced at her deprecatingly, but quite ready to assume a defensive attitude.  Ashamed of having allowed her indignation to carry her so far, she was, however, inclined to be conciliatory; and therefore, with an effort, managed to say, as if nothing had happened: 

“Come, Tilderee!  Watch at the window for father, while I get dinner ready.”

Tilderee at once sprang to her feet gaily, threw her arms around Joan’s waist, and held up her rosy mouth for the kiss of mutual forgiveness, Fudge wriggling and wagging his tail.