things I can't keep track of all. And there's Lady Margaret too"--

"M-must we tell her?" stammered Edmund.

"Why, it's her snake," said Oscar, opening his honest eyes; "how
can we help it?"

"I suppose we _can't_ help it," said Edmund.

"But we might telegraph," said Oscar; "it's a heap easier than
writing and you can get lots of words for a shilling."

"No, we'll have to write," said Edmund; "I'll do it."

But Oscar shook his head. "No, Ned, that ain't fair. I'm the most
to blame and I ought to do it. Besides _you_ wouldn't say it
was my fault."

Then the last barrier of Edmund's pride broke down. "Don't,"
he cried again. "I tell you it's I'm to blame, not you. And--
and--Oscar, I've been very mean to you all along"--

"No, you haven't," said Oscar promptly; "it was me bullying you
in the first place made all the trouble. Aunt Nora told me maybe you
wouldn't be friends for a while, and she told me all about the mad
dog and I thought you were a pretty nice boy and I wished you would
like me, but you wouldn't, so I pretended I didn't care. But I did.
It's lonesome travelling around with a feller that's mad with you
all the time."