Comfort sobbed harder, and people stared more and more curiously.  Finally one stout woman in a black velvet bonnet stopped.  “I hope you haven’t done anything to hurt this other little girl?” she said, suspiciously, to Matilda.

“No, ma’am, I ain’t,” replied Matilda.

“What’s the matter, child?” said the woman in the black velvet bonnet to Comfort.  And Comfort choked out something about losing her ring.

“Where did you lose it?” asked the woman.

“I don’t k—­n—­o—­w,” sobbed Comfort.

“Well, you’d better go right home and tell your mother about it,” said the stout woman, and went her way with many backward glances.

Matilda dragged her sled to Comfort’s side and eyed her dubiously.

“Why didn’t you get the ring when we were right there with the gold dollar?” she demanded.  “What made you run out of Gerrish’s that way?”

“I’m—­go—­ing—­home,” sobbed Comfort.

“Ain’t you going to wait and ride in the stage coach?”

“I’m—­going—­right—­home.”

“Imogen said to go in the stage-coach.  I don’t know as mother’ll like it if we walk.  Why didn’t you get the ring, Comfort Pease?”

“I don’t want—­any—­ring.  I’m going home—­to—­tell—­my mother.”

“Your mother would have been real pleased to have you get the ring,” said Matilda, in an injured tone; for she fancied Comfort meant to complain of her to her mother.

Then Comfort turned on Matilda in an agony of confession.  “My mother don’t know anything about it,” said she.  “I took the ring unbeknownst to her when she said I couldn’t, and then I lost it, and I was going to get the new ring to put in the box so she wouldn’t ever know.  I’m going right home and tell her.”

Matilda looked at her.  “Comfort Pease, didn’t you ask your mother?” said she.

Comfort shook her head.

“Then,” said Matilda, solemnly, “we’d better go home just as quick as we can.  We won’t wait for any stage-coach—­I know my mother wouldn’t want me to.  S’pose your mother should die, or anything, before you have a chance to tell her, Comfort Pease!  I read a story once about a little girl that told a lie, and her mother died, and she hadn’t owned up.  It was dreadful.  Now you get right on the sled, and I’ll drag you as far as the meeting-house, and then you can drag me as far as the saw-mill.”

Comfort huddled herself up on the sled in a miserable little bunch, and Matilda dragged her.  Her very back looked censorious to Comfort, but finally she turned around.

“The big girls were real mean, so there; and they pestered you dreadfully,” said she.  “Don’t you cry any more, Comfort.  Just you tell your mother all about it, and I don’t believe she’ll scold much.  You can have this gold dollar to buy you another ring, anyway, if she’ll let you.”

The road home from Bolton seemed much longer than the road there had done, although the little girls hurried, and dragged each other with fierce jerks.  “Now,” said Matilda, when they reached her house at length, “I’ll go home with you while you tell your mother, if you want me to, Comfort.  My mother’s got home—­I can see her head in the window.  I’ll run and ask her.”