“Look at that nice little boy, Angelina,” Aunt Emily said.  “See how good——­” But at that very instant that same playful breeze that had been ruffling the daffodils, and sending shimmers through the fountain decided that now was the moment to catch Miss Emily’s black hat at one corner, prove to her that the pin that should have fastened it to her hair was loose, and swing the whole affair to one side.  Up went her hands; she gave a little cry of dismay.

Instantly, then, Angelina was determined.  She did not suppose that her freedom would be for long, nor did she hope to have time to reach the almond tree; but her small, stumpy legs started off down the path almost before she was aware of it.  She started, and Rose bumped against her as she ran.  She heard behind her cries; she saw in front of her the almond tree, and then coming swiftly towards her a small boy with a hoop....  She stopped, hesitated, and then fell.  The golden afternoon, with all its scents and sounds, passed on above her head.  She was conscious that a hand was on her shoulder, she was lifted and shaken.  Tears trickling down the side of her nose were checked by little points of gravel.  She was aware that the little boy with the hoop had stopped and said something.  Above her, very large and grim, was her aunt.  Some bird on a tree was making a noise like the drawing of a cork. (She had heard her nurse once draw one.) In her heart was utter misery.  The gravel hurt her face, the almond tree was farther away than ever; she was captured more completely than she had ever been before.

“Oh, you naughty little girl—­you naughty girl,” she heard her aunt say; and then, after her, the bird like a cork.  She stood there, her mouth tightly shut, the marks of tears drying to muddy lines on her face.

She was dragged off.  Aunt Emily was furious at the child’s silence; Aunt Emily was also aware that she must have looked what she would call “a pretty figure of fun” with her hat askew, her hair blown “anyway,” and a small child of three escaping from her charge as fast as she could go.

Angelina was dragged across the street, in through the squeezed front door, over the dark stairs, up into the nursery.  Miss Violet’s voice was heard calling, “Is that you, Emily?  Tea’s been waiting some time.”

It was nurse’s afternoon out, and the nursery was grimly empty; but through the open, window came the evening sounds of the happy Square.  Miss Emily placed Angelina in the middle of the room.  “Now say you’re sorry, you wicked child!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

“Sowwy,” came slowly from Angelina.  Then she looked down at her doll.

“Leave that doll alone.  Speak as though you were sorry.”

“I’m velly sowwy.”

“What made you run away like that?” Angelina said nothing.  “Come, now!  Didn’t you know it was very wicked?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why did you do it, then?”