Alice was no longer in an admiring frame of mind; Sara's naughtiness had become obtrusive; it was degenerating from the legitimate drama to vaudeville, it was monotonous, and Alice found herself in no mood to listen to Robert with contentment when he protested about taking a bunch of sweet peas to Mrs. Painter.
"Why don't you want to take them?" she inquired.
"I am bad too," he answered.
Alice was shocked; it is a terrible thing when your obliging children turn on you this way. She voiced her emotion with an inadequate
"I am surprised at you, Robert. Come, come, take the flowers along."
He took them as he was told, he ran along a little ways, then he put them down.
"What does that mean?" cried Alice coldly.
"I am bad like Sara," he replied, an impish flicker in his eyes, and yet he looked anxious. Anger arose in Alice. Two in the family was too much. Next Jamie would be getting bad. They stood there facing each other.
"He's just stubborn," thought Alice, and here from around the house came Sara; she had forgotten to be naughty or anything else, the rage of an offended female was hers.
"Robert," she proclaimed, "is a bad boy. He is a bad, bad boy! He won't do what I say, he won't be as I like!" There it was! The most Distressing Doubt of all was born in Alice's mind. Sara knew what a bad boy was, and that was all there was to it—a bad boy was one who wouldn't do as one liked, or be as one liked.
When one comes down to it that is generally what a bad boy was. Alice's anger died, she put her arms around Robert's neck:
