We gave her a tablespoonful of the wine in a proper wine-glass out of the sideboard, because she was a lady. And when she had tasted it she got up in a very great hurry, and shook out her dress and snapped her bag shut, and said, "You naughty, wicked children! What do you mean by playing a trick like this? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! I shall write to your Mamma about it. You dreadful little girl!—you might have poisoned me. But your Mamma ..."
Then Alice said, "I'm very sorry; the butcher liked it, only he said it was sweet. And please don't write to Mother. It makes Father so unhappy when letters come for her!"—and Alice was very near crying.
"What do you mean, you silly child?" said the lady, looking quite bright and interested. "Why doesn't your Father like your Mother to have letters—eh?"
And Alice said, "Oh, you ...!" and began to cry, and bolted out of the room.
Then I said, "Our Mother is dead, and will you please go away now?"
The lady looked at me a minute, and then she looked quite different, and she said, "I'm very sorry. I didn't know. Never mind about the wine. I daresay your little
