"What for made me cwy? I cwyed because I just did—that's what for because."
"Her will-o'-the-wisp of a brain must do a few minutes' consecutive work now and then," Tom apologized to Alice, though he was beginning to feel like a pig. "Think, Sara, of the reason that made you cry."
Sara looked from one to the other; they towered above her, august but friendly. They were the two people toward whom her flooding affections flowed most readily. When they were displeased with her she wept. She wanted to be told as often as they would that they loved her. All day long, like a gay spring, she babbled terms of endearment. Hastily she turned her back on all difficult subjects. That was why she preferred birds as a topic of conversation to the unpleasant one of tears. She was a child of light, of a flowering, ardent nature, swift to anger, quick to tears and quickly back again to laughter. She played through this cycle many times a day. Emotion was the element in which she lived. Now her dear mother and father wanted something of her. They were both waiting, expectant. She would not fail them. Her searching eyes fell on the waving poplar leaves.
"What for did I cwy? I cwyed because the wind blowed in the trees."
She gave it out so sparkling and triumphant that no one would have had the heart to tell her that she wasn't a clever child. Her manner showed that she considered the incident closed, and with a burst of fireworks. Besides this, her father was laughing, and Sara laughed with him. She could tell by the way he laughed that she had been a clever child.
Everything would now have been well if Rob hadn't come into the room in time to hear her last words.
"That's not what made you cry," he asserted. "You
