THE QUARREL.
Now, Hilda was a good deal of a tease, in a quiet way. The little fellow
looked so funny as he lay there with closely shut eyes, and wide-open
mouth, that, quick as a flash, came the impulse to throw something in
it. She turned to the washstand close by, where was still standing some
water in which they had just washed their hands. Nurse’s big thimble was
on the washstand also, and Hilda snatched it up, and emptied a
thimbleful of the water right down the poor baby’s throat.
There was a gurgle, a howl, a choke, and Kenneth lay gasping and
struggling for breath, for the water had gone down his little windpipe.
The audience from the hall, and nurse from an adjoining room, came
rushing in. Poor little Kenneth was purple in the face. Nurse snatched
him up and patted his back, and blew in his mouth, to make him catch his
breath.
Hilda stood frightened at the mischief she had unthinkingly done.
Cricket turned upon her, in a sudden blind fury of rage, for almost the
first time in her life.
“You mean, mean, horrid girl! To treat my baby so! I hate you, there!
You’re always doing mean things, and you always take the biggest of
everything, and you’ve made baby cry before.”
“You _are_ mean,” chimed in Eunice; “I’ve seen you rub out Cricket’s
sums, and I always meant to tell everybody, when I got a good chance.”
“And I know who ate up all my candy,” added Edith.
“You tooked my dolly and hided her, and I cried!” put in Zaidee, joining
the attacking force.
“And I know who’s a sneak, and told on Mabel Wilson, when none of the
other girls would!” cried Eunice.
“You’re the selfishest, meanest old thing!” it was Cricket’s turn again.
She had gotten hold of Kenneth now, and he was clinging with both arms
around the neck of his favourite sister.
“To pour that horrid, dirty water down his throat, just to tease him,”
went on Cricket, furiously. “I’ll never forgive you, and I won’t play
with you any more, forever ’n’ ever, ’n’ I wish you’d go home this
moment, Hilda Mason, there!”
Hilda stared helplessly, as the unexpected words rained around her.
Could they be really talking to _her_? Was it her little Cricket who was
blazing like a little fury, and actually telling her to go home? She was
quite too frightened to speak, at first, as the angry group around her
all talked at once.
“I didn’t mean,” she faltered, at last; then she, too, burst into angry
tears. “You’re horrid, rude girls to say such things to company,” she
sobbed. “I’m going straight home to tell mamma how you treated me, and
she’ll never let me come here again.”
“You’d better go right away, Miss Hilda,” said nurse, dryly, and she
brought the little girl’s hat and put on her sacque. Hilda had never
been at all a favourite with her, for she had often seen her slyly tease
the little ones.
Hilda marched off abused, excited and angry. The idea—the very _idea_ of
such language to her, to Hilda Mason, whom everybody called so good, and
who was used to being held up as the model child of the neighbourhood.
[Illustration: HILDA BY THE BROOK.]
And Cricket, her dear Cricket, whom she really loved heartily, had told
her she hated her, and would never forgive her, and wouldn’t ever play
with her any more.
What had she done to deserve all this? Why, nothing at all; only poured
a little water down the baby’s throat, when he looked so funny, lying
there with his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth wide open. She didn’t
know it would choke him so; of course she didn’t mean to hurt him. Such
a fuss about nothing. Then, suddenly, they all flew at her, and said
dreadful things, right before nurse. Hilda did not realize that such an
outbreak is seldom as sudden as it seems, and that many grievances will
often smoulder for a long time, till some trifle fires the flame.
She walked along, miserable enough, half-crying, half-indignant. The
rain had ceased, and the sky had cleared, so she stopped by the brook in
the grassy lane, which the children used as a short cut, and sat down by
the little bridge. She was ashamed to go on into the village street
while she was crying.
Here she and Cricket had spent many happy hours, and had never, never
quarrelled before. She did not stop to think, then, to whom the credit
of this belonged. Cricket certainly always did as Hilda wished, but she
was sure she was equally ready to do as Cricket wished, wasn’t she? She
began to think. Cricket always liked to keep on through the woods to
Hilda’s house, while she liked to strike off into the village street.
How seldom they went through the woods, although it was nearer, and
Cricket liked it so well! Cricket loved marsh-mallows, while Hilda was
devoted to chocolate-creams; but when they spent their weekly pennies
together for candy, as they always did, how was it they so rarely bought
marsh-mallows? Hilda’s conscience pricked her faintly.
“Well, I am always willing she should buy them, if she’d just say she
would, any way,” she reflected, uneasily.
But then, Cricket never did say she “would, anyway.”
What a delight it was to her little friend to be out in the fields and
woods, searching out the earliest wild-flowers, exploring for the first
chestnuts, perfectly happy if she were simply out-of-doors. She,
herself, preferred quiet, indoor sports and dolls, excepting when the
weather just suited her, and was neither too warm nor too cold. Did they
ever stay out when she did not wish to?
And she _did_ rub out Cricket’s examples, often and often.
“Cricket was so quick,” she argued, with her conscience, “and she could
do them right over, and she didn’t like to get behind herself. Cricket
was such a silly, not to guess it.” And why shouldn’t she take the
biggest of anything? One of them had to have it, and she was the oldest.
Still, she remembered, with another faint sting of conscience, she
didn’t like it when Eunice took things for the same reason, and Cricket
had to yield to them both.
Had Cricket ever been heard telling the twins they must do certain
things because they were younger?
Hilda began to feel very queerly. She was so used to praise and petting,
that the plain speeches she had heard had almost taken her breath away,
true though they were. Cricket was always being lectured, because she
was careless and disorderly, and heedless and forgetful, and Hilda had
always felt superior. But was she really horrid? was she hateful? was
she selfish? was she a sneak?
“Mamma doesn’t think so, anyway,” she said, with a little sob. But it
was that very morning, when she asked permission to go and see Cricket,
that her mother had hesitated, and said,—
“I thought perhaps you would be willing to stay at home this morning,
darling. My head aches badly, and poor, sick grandmamma says she has
scarcely seen her little girl this week.”
But Hilda looked so abused that her mother hastened to add,—
“Never mind, dear, go on and have a good time, but I would like you to
come home to lunch;” and the little girl had neglected her mother’s
words, as of no importance.
It was a very sober, subdued Hilda, who, much later, slipped quietly
into the house.
Her mother had been in bed all day, with one of her worst headaches, the
maid said, and she herself had been sitting with grandmamma, and reading
to her, for the old lady felt very lonely. Hilda winced as she thought
of that hard, rasping voice reading to an invalid.
Mrs. Mason heard her little girl’s voice and spoke to her, and Hilda
crept quietly into her mother’s room. She knew, well enough, that her
little soft fingers had magic power to drive away mamma’s nervous
headaches, but usually it was “such a bother” to sit in the darkened
room, that often, as she now guiltily remembered, she had slipped away,
when she knew mamma had a headache, lest she should be asked to do it.
Oh, she was a selfish, selfish Hilda!
That night, when her head was better, mamma and Hilda had a long talk.
The whole story came out, and Hilda confessed that she believed that she
was the horridest, selfishest girl in the whole town. And her mother’s
tears fell quietly and fast, as she realized, for the first time, how
she had been spoiling her darling. Because her little daughter was
dainty and orderly, and sweet and polite, she had been ruining her with
too much praise, and letting her grow up selfish and inconsiderate.
“We will both begin again, my little girl,” she said, holding Hilda
close. “And to begin with, do you know you ought to tell Cricket you are
sorry?”
“Oh, mamma, I can’t—oh, I _can’t_! I shouldn’t know anything what to
say.”
“It is the only honourable thing to do, darling. You have been much to
blame. I will tell Cricket for you, if you like. She is a dear little
girl, and I’m sure she will forgive you and love you just the same.”
Nevertheless, Hilda could not quite make up her mind, that night, to
take this step.
The next Monday she started off, very soberly and unhappily, for school.
As she turned into the lane, however, she saw a familiar little red
dress fluttering by the hedge, and in a moment Cricket came in view.
Both little girls stopped and looked at each other shyly for a moment.
Cricket spoke first.
“Mamma says I was very rude to you,” she began, very soberly, but Hilda
ran up to her, impulsively, and threw both her arms around her neck.
“_I_ was rude and horrid, Cricket, and I did rub out your sums, and I’ve
teased the children, and I’ve torn up your jography questions often and
often; and I should think you’d hate me.” Hilda said all this in a
breath.
Cricket looked too astonished to speak.
“Oh, please, Cricket, forgive me, and love me just the same, and we’ll
always buy marsh-mallows, for I like them pretty well, and it doesn’t
make any difference if I don’t!” finished Hilda, very much mixed up, but
very much in earnest.
But Cricket, while she did not quite understand all Hilda meant, was,
nevertheless, only too glad to kiss and make friends, and so their
quarrel was made up.