Now Meg had promised him eight chocolate walnuts on his return,
and if this same boy had one weakness more pronounced than others,
it was his extreme partiality for this kind of confectionery, and
he had not tasted one for weeks, so no wonder it almost broke his
heart to think they would be forfeited.

"I know she'll be stingy enough to say I haven't earned them, just
'cause I dropped that girl's stupid letter," he said to himself,
miserably, "and I don't suppose there was anything in it but
'Dearest Marguerite, let us always tell each other our secrets';
I heard her say that twice, and of course she writes it, too."
Then temptation came upon him swiftly, suddenly.

By nature Bunty was the most arrant little storyteller ever born,
and it was only Judy's fearless honesty and strongly expressed
scorn for equivocation that had kept him moderately truthful.
But Judy was miles away, and could not possibly wither him up
with her look of utter contempt. He was at the nursery door now,
turning the handle with hesitating hands.

"What a time you've been," said Meg from the table, where she was
mending a boxful of her gloves. "Well, what did she say?"

Just at her elbow was the gay _bonbonniere_ containing the brown,
cream-encrusted walnuts.

"She said, 'All right,'" said Bunty gruffly.

Meg counted the eight chocolates out into his little grimy hand,
and resumed her mending with a relieved sigh. And Bunty, with a