Winslow looked down and saw the two children; and one could discover the
signals of calamity in their faces: Peggy's a fine scarlet and
Johnny-Ivan's grayish-white.
"What's the matter, Johnny?" asked Winslow.
Johnny's eyelids were glued tight--just as they were when he pulled
Peggy's tooth--he blurted everything out breathlessly: "I've done
something _awful_, papa! It'll cost thousands of dollars."
Emma Hopkins had considered Winslow an unattractive man, of a harsh
visage, but now, as he looked at his little son, she changed her mind.
"What did you do, son?" said he quietly; his hand found Johnny's brown
curls and lay on them a second.
"He didn't do it, really; it was _me_," Peggy broke in, too agitated for
grammar. "I was playing with the little tricks on the table, the models,
sah, and I was making the v'losipid run round and he was 'fraid I'd
break it; but _I_ did it, really, sah."
"And the model fell on to something valuable? I see."
"But he wasn't playing with it, he was only trying to keep me from
breaking--"
"Well, young lady, you two are evidently in the same boat; but you
aren't a bit sneaky, either of you.
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