"It's better
than cutting up my pocket-handkerchief, for it only shortens it a
little, and Mamma often cuts the ends a little when our sashes ravel.
How many petticoats have you done, dear?"
"Four," said I.
"Well, we've three skirts. Those long strips will do for Uncle
Reginald's neckties. You can cut that last sheet into two pieces, and
we'll pretend they're tablecloths. And then I think you'd better fetch
the iron. Here's the holder."
"Oh! Polly dear! It is such fun!" I cried; but as I drew near to the
fireplace the words died away on my lips. My flat iron was gone.
At first I thought it had fallen on to the hearth; but looking nearer
I saw a blob or button of lead upon the bar of the grate. There was no
resisting the conviction which forced itself upon me: my flat iron was
melted.
Polly was much distressed. Doubly so because she had been the cause of
the misfortune. As we were examining the shapeless lump of metal, she
said, "It's like a little lump of silver that Miss Blomfield has
hanging to her watch chain;" which determined me to have a hole made
through the remains of my flat iron, and do the same.
"Papa has promised me a watch next birthday," I added.
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