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,