She did cry a little after tea, as they sat in the dusk; Mr. Worrett smoking his pipe and slapping mosquitoes outside the door, and Mrs. Worrett sleeping rather noisily in a big rocking-chair.
But not even Johnnie found out that she was crying; for Elsie felt that she was the naughtiest child in the world to behave so badly when everybody was so kind to her.
She repeated this to herself many times, but it didn't do much good.
As often as the thought of home and Katy and papa came, a wild longing to get back to them would rush over her, and her eyes would fill again with sudden tears.
The night was very uncomfortable.
Not a breath of wind was stirring, or none found its way to the stifling bed where the little sisters lay.
John slept pretty well, in spite of heat and mosquitoes, but Elsie hardly closed her eyes.
Once she got up and went to the window, but the blue paper shade had become unfastened, and rattled down upon her head with a sudden bump, which startled her very much.
She could find no pins in the dark, so she left it hanging; whereupon it rustled and flapped through the rest of the night, and did its share toward keeping her awake.
About three o'clock she fell into a doze; and it seemed only a minute after that before she waked up to find bright sunshine in the room, and half a dozen roosters crowing and calling under the windows.
Her head ached violently.
She longed to stay in bed, but was afraid it would be thought impolite, so she dressed and went down with Johnnie; but she looked so pale and ate so little breakfast that Mrs. Worrett was quite troubled, and said she had better not try to go out, but just lie on the lounge in the best room, and amuse herself with a book.
The lounge in the best room was covered with slippery purple chintz.
It was a high lounge and very narrow.
There was nothing at the end to hold the pillow in its place; so the pillow constantly tumbled off and jerked Elsie's head suddenly backward, which was not at all comfortable.
Worse,—Elsie having dropped into a doze, she herself tumbled to the floor, rolling from the glassy, smooth chintz as if it had been a slope of ice.
This adventure made her so nervous that she dared not go to sleep again, though Johnnie fetched two chairs, and placed them beside the sofa to hold her on.
So she followed Mrs. Worretts advice, and "amused herself with a book."
There were not many books in the best room.
The one Elsie chose was a fat black volume called
"The Complete Works of Mrs. Hannah More."
Part of it was prose, and part was poetry.
Elsie began with a chapter called
"Hints on the Formation of the Character of a Youthful Princess."
But there were a great many long words in it; so she turned to a story named
"Coelebs in Search of a Wife."
It was about a young gentleman who wanted to get married, but who didn't feel sure that there were any young ladies nice enough for him; so he went about making visits, first to one and then to another; and, when he had stayed a few days at a house, he would always say,
"No, she won't do," and then he would go away.
At last, he found a young lady who seemed the very person, who visited the poor, and got up early in the morning, and always wore white, and never forgot to wind up her watch or do her duty; and Elsie almost thought that now the difficult young gentleman must be satisfied, and say,
"This is the very thing."
When, lo! her attention wandered a little, and the next thing she knew she was rolling off the lounge for the second time, in company with Mrs. Hannah More.
They landed in the chairs, and Johnnie ran and picked them both up.
Altogether, lying on the best parlor sofa was not very restful; and as the day went on, and the sun beating on the blindless windows made the room hotter, Elsie grew continually more and more feverish and homesick and disconsolate.
Meanwhile Johnnie was kept in occupation by Mrs. Worrett, who had got the idea firmly fixed in her mind, that the chief joy of a child's life was to chase chickens.
Whenever a hen fluttered past the kitchen door, which was about once in three minutes, she would cry:
"Here, Johnnie, here's another chicken for you to chase;" and poor Johnnie would feel obliged to dash out into the sun.
Being a very polite little girl, she did not like to say to Mrs. Worrett that running in the heat was disagreeable: so by dinner-time she was thoroughly tired out, and would have been cross if she had known how; but she didn't— Johnnie was never cross.
After dinner it was even worse; for the sun was hotter, and the chickens, who didn't mind sun, seemed to be walking all the time.
"Hurry, Johnnie, here's another," came so constantly, that at last Elsie grew desperate, got up, and went to the kitchen with a languid appeal:
"Please, Mrs. Worrett, won't you let Johnnie stay by me, because my head aches so hard?"
After that, Johnnie had a rest; for Mrs. Worrett was the kindest of women, and had no idea that she was not amusing her little guest in the most delightful manner.
A little before six, Elsie's head felt better; and she and Johnnie put on their hats, and went for a walk in the garden.
There was not much to see: beds of vegetables,—a few currant bushes,—that was all.
Elsie was leaning against a paling, and trying to make out why the Worrett house had that queer tiptoe expression, when a sudden loud grunt startled her, and something touched the top of her head.
She turned, and there was an enormous pig, standing on his hind legs, on the other side of the paling.
He was taller than Elsie, as he stood thus, and it was his cold nose which had touched her head.
Somehow, appearing in this unexpected way, he seemed to the children like some dreadful wild beast.
They screamed with fright, and fled to the house, from which Elsie never ventured to stir again during their visit.
John chased chickens at intervals, but it was a doubtful pleasure; and all the time she kept a wary eye on the distant pig.
That evening, while Mrs. Worrett slept and Mr. Worrett smoked outside the door, Elsie felt so very miserable that she broke down altogether.