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Bobbie
made
the
reply
she
always
made
to
it
.
"
I
ca
n't
think
why
little
boys
were
ever
invented
,
"
and
just
as
she
said
it
she
looked
up
,
and
saw
the
three
long
windows
of
Mother
's
workshop
flashing
in
the
red
rays
of
the
sun
.
The
sight
brought
back
those
words
of
praise
:
--
"
You
do
n't
quarrel
like
you
used
to
do
.
"
"
OH
!
"
cried
Bobbie
,
just
as
if
she
had
been
hit
,
or
had
caught
her
finger
in
a
door
,
or
had
felt
the
hideous
sharp
beginnings
of
toothache
.
"
What
's
the
matter
?
"
said
Phyllis
.
Bobbie
wanted
to
say
:
"
Do
n't
let
's
quarrel
.
Mother
hates
it
so
,
"
but
though
she
tried
hard
,
she
could
n't
.
Peter
was
looking
too
disagreeable
and
insulting
.
"
Take
the
horrid
rake
,
then
,
"
was
the
best
she
could
manage
.
And
she
suddenly
let
go
her
hold
on
the
handle
.
Peter
had
been
holding
on
to
it
too
firmly
and
pullingly
,
and
now
that
the
pull
the
other
way
was
suddenly
stopped
,
he
staggered
and
fell
over
backward
,
the
teeth
of
the
rake
between
his
feet
.
"
Serve
you
right
,
"
said
Bobbie
,
before
she
could
stop
herself
.
Peter
lay
still
for
half
a
moment
--
long
enough
to
frighten
Bobbie
a
little
.
Then
he
frightened
her
a
little
more
,
for
he
sat
up
--
screamed
once
--
turned
rather
pale
,
and
then
lay
back
and
began
to
shriek
,
faintly
but
steadily
.
It
sounded
exactly
like
a
pig
being
killed
a
quarter
of
a
mile
off
.
