"I know I burnt a muffin;
but what has that got to do with Madonna's present to me?" (Mrs. Blyth
shook her head; and, opening her book, became quite absorbed over it in
a moment.) "Didn't I thank her properly for it? I'm sure I meant to."
(Here he stopped; but Mrs. Blyth took no notice of him.) "I suppose
I've got myself into some scrape? Make as much fun as you like about
it; but tell me what it is. You won't? Then I'll find out all about it
from Madonna. She knows, of course; and she'll tell me. Look here, Mrs.
Blyth; I'm not going to get up till she's told me everything." And
Zack, with a comic gesture of entreaty, dropped on his knees by
Madonna's chair; preventing her from leaving it, which she tried to do,
by taking immediate possession of the slate that hung at her side.
While young Thorpe was scribbling questions, protestations, and
extravagances of every kind, in rapid succession, on the slate; and
while Madonna, her face half smiling, half tearful, as she felt that he
was looking up at it--was reading what he wrote, trying hard, at first,
not to believe in him too easily when he scribbled an explanation, and
not to look down on him too leniently when he followed it up by an
entreaty; and ending at last, in defiance of Mrs.
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