Sylvia began to wonder what she could do.  She thought Estralla was stupid and clumsy to fall down and break the pitcher, and now she thought her silly to be so frightened.

“I tells you, Missy, I su’ly will be whipped,” she repeated so earnestly that Sylvia began to believe it.  “An’ when my mammy sees my dress all wet—­” and Estralla began to sob, but so quietly that Sylvia realized the little darky was really frightened and unhappy.

“Don’t cry, Estralla,” she said more gently, patting her on the shoulder.  “I’ll tell you what to do.  You are just about my size, and I’ll give you one of my dresses.  It’s pink, and it’s faded a little, but it’s pretty.  And you take this towel and wipe up the floor as well as you can.  Then you slip off your dress and put on mine.”  While Sylvia talked Estralla stopped crying and began to look a little more cheerful.

Sylvia ran to the closet and was back in a moment with a pink checked gingham.  It had a number of tiny ruffles on the skirt, and a little frill of lace around the neck.

“Landy!  You don’t mean I kin keep that, Missy?” exclaimed Estralla, her face radiant at the very thought.

“Yes, quick.  Somebody may come.  Slip off your dress.”

In a moment the old blue frock lay in a little heap on the floor, and Sylvia had slipped the pink dress over Estralla’s head, and was fastening it.  The little darky chuckled and laughed now as if she had not a trouble in the world.

“Listen, Estralla!  Here, pick up every bit of the pitcher and put the pieces on the chair.  Nobody shall know that you broke it.  And now you take this wet towel and your dress and spread them somewhere outdoors to dry.  You can tell your mammy I gave you the dress.  Now, run quick.  My mother may come.”

Estralla stood quite still looking at Sylvia.  She had stopped laughing.

“Will you’ mammy scold you ’bout dat pitcher?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  Anyway, nobody shall know that you broke it.  You won’t be whipped.  Run along,” urged Sylvia.

But Estralla did not move.  “I don’t keer if I is whipped,” she announced.  “I guess, mebbe, my mammy won’t whip hard.”

“Sylvia, Sylvia,” sounded her mother’s voice, and both the little girls looked at each other with startled eyes.

“Run,” said Sylvia, giving Estralla a little push.  “Run out on the balcony.”  Estralla did not question the command, and in a moment, carrying dress and towel, she had vanished through the open window.

“Why, child!  What has happened?” exclaimed Mrs. Fulton, coming into the room and looking at the overturned footstool, the pieces of the broken pitcher, and at Sylvia standing in the middle of the floor with an anxious, half-frightened expression.

“Don’t look so frightened, dear child.  A broken pitcher isn’t worth it,” said Mrs. Fulton smilingly.  “It’s only hot water, and won’t hurt anything.  Only Father is waiting for breakfast, so use cold water this morning.  Here is your blue muslin—­I’ll tie your sash when you come down,” and giving Sylvia a kiss her mother hurried away.