Jean was driven to desperate measures. She
took a few drops of water in the dipper, marched firmly to the
bedside, and stood with it poised directly above Jock's nose.
"Jock," she said solemnly, "I'm telling you! Don't ever say I
didn't. If you don't stir yourself before I count five, you'll be
sorry. One, two, three!" Still no move from Jock. "Four, five,"
and, without further parley, she emptied the dipper on his
freckled nose.
There was a wrathful snort and a violent convulsion of the
blankets, and an instant later Jock was tearing about the kitchen
like a cat in a fit, but by this time Jean was out of doors and
well beyond reach.
"Come here, you limmer!" he howled. But Jean knew better than to
accept his invitation. Instead she skipped laughing down the path
from the door to the brook which ran bubbling and gurgling by the
house. Even in her hasty exit from the cottage, Jean had had the
presence of mind to take the pail with her, and now she stopped
to fill it from the clear, sparkling water of the burn. It was
such a wonderful bright spring morning that, having filled it,
she stopped for a moment to look about her at the dear familiar
surroundings of her home.
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