he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he caught sight of Marianna’s middy blouse and yellow pigtails. That was yesterday. To-day the malted milk was standing untouched upon the wicker table, and Marianna in the hammock was trying to think up an offensive rhyme for Frank. When she found it, she intended to go around on the other side of the house and shout it as loud as ever she could in the direction of her uncle’s garden. This, it is true, was a tame revenge. What Marianna really wanted to do was to go over and pinch her cousin Frank; but that, unhappily, was out of the question, as Frank had a cold, and she was strictly forbidden to go near anybody with a cold.[3] THE GIRL (interrupting). Lady, where d’ you think you’re goin’ to when you kick it? Tell me! THE LADY. Why—I don’t know—To Heaven, I hope—but you mustn’t— THE GIRL. What makes you think you’re goin’ to Heaven? THE LADY. Well—I think so because—well—because I’ve always tried to do right—no, no—I didn’t mean that exactly. Of course I’ve done millions of wrong things—but I mean—Oh Hattie dear, Heaven is such a vague term! All we know is that it is a beautiful place where we’ll be happy, and that we’re going there. THE GIRL. How do you know we’re goin’? THE LADY. I don’t know, I believe. THE GIRL. But how do you know the wrong things you done won’t keep you out? THE LADY. Now I’m afraid you’re exciting yourself— THE GIRL. Oh Lord, cut that out! I’m excited all right, all right! Guess you’d be if you had the thoughts I got goin’ ’round in your head all the time—but there’s no sense talking them out. Nobody can’t do nothin’ for me now! THE LADY. Oh you mustn’t say that! THE GIRL. Well, can ye? THE LADY. I’ll try if you will tell me what is troubling you. THE GIRL. Oh Gawd! She wants to know what’s troubling me, she does! THE LADY. Can’t you tell me? Perhaps I could help you. THE GIRL. You said you done wrong things.—What was they? THE LADY. I—I don’t know exactly. THE GIRL. You don’t _know_? THE LADY. Why I suppose I could think of lots of things but— THE GIRL. She could “think of lots o’ things”! Has to stop to remember—O gee—guess she’ll get in. THE LADY. Oh _please_ don’t laugh like that! Listen—Whatever you have done, no matter how dreadful, if you are sorry it will be all right—Don’t be afraid. THE GIRL. Is that true? THE LADY. Yes. THE GIRL. I don’t believe it. THE LADY. It is true nevertheless. THE GIRL. Well, if you aint sorry? THE LADY. But surely you are—You must be! THE GIRL. No I aint. It was better dead. THE LADY. What do you mean? THE GIRL. I tell ye, it was better to be dead. Say, Lady—in them wrong things you done you _can’t remember_ did ye—did ye ever kill a kid that hadn’t hardly breathed—Say, did ye—did ye? THE LADY. Oh, oh—What shall I do? Hattie! Hattie! Try and stop crying. I’m so grieved for you. Tell me what you wish—only don’t cry so! THE GIRL. I aint sorry.