in her lap, and
said,--

"Well, Marjery, you're a smart child; there's no doubt about it--a
very smart child."

Just think of that from Miss Julia! It wouldn't have been much from
Miss Samantha, for she had a soft way with her; but Miss Julia! Why,
it puffed me out, and puffed me out, till there was about as much
substance to me as there is to a great hollow soap-bubble.

"Yes," said cousin Joseph, in his slow way, "Marjery is smart enough,
but she ought to be very smart to make up for her heedlessness."

There, he had pricked the bubble that time! I twinkled right out.

And it was the last time Julia admired me; for she happened to think
just then of her gold watch. It was not on Fel's neck; it had gone
into the well where the stars were. Seth got it out, but it was
battered and bruised, and something had happened to the inside of it,
so it wouldn't tick.

Miss Julia never took me in her lap again; but she liked Fel as well
as ever. She said Fel was not at all to blame. I knew she wasn't, and
somehow, after that dreadful affair, I was willing people should love
Fel better than me. I had been fairly frightened out of my crossness
to her. O, what if I _had_ drowned her? Every time I wanted to snub
her I thought of that, and stopped. I suppose I put my arms round her
neck fifty times, and asked, "Do you love me _jus_ the same as if I
hadn't drowned you?"

And she said "Yes," every time, the precious darling!

I had a very lame arm not long after this; it almost threw me into a
fever. I was ashamed to have that doctor come, for they had told me
what was the matter. It has always been my luck, children, if I ever
tried to show off, to get nicely paid for it!

Now I think of it, Dotty, how easily Fel could have turned upon me at
this time, and said, "Ho, little meddle-girl! Got a sore arm, too!"

But you may be sure she never thought of such a thing. It grieved her
to see me lie in bed, and toss about with pain. She sat beside me, and
patted my cheeks with her little, soft hands, and sometimes read to
me, from a Sabbath school book, about a good girl, named Mary
Lothrop,--she could read as well as most grown people, for she really
was a remarkable child,--but I didn't like to hear about Mary Lothrop,
and begged her to stop.

"She's too tremendous good," said I. "It killed her to be so good, and
I'm afraid--"

I believe I never told Fel what I was afraid of; but it was, that she
was "too tremendous good" hers