rm."

"Why?"

"Andrew took him. He found him eating the spinach, and he said he must
obey orders. And I asked Miss Grey to stop him, and she said she
couldn't interfere--"

Nancy stopped and gasped.

"Then," said David sternly, "you didn't fasten his gate."

"Oh, I _thought_ I did," said Nancy, beginning to sob again in an
agonised manner; "but I forgot to put that stick through the staple, and
he must have pushed it open. I am so sorry."

"That's no good at all," said David with a trembling lip; "Antony's
gone."

"I'll give you anything of mine to make up," said Nancy eagerly--"my
bantam hen, or my dormouse, or my white kitten."

"I don't want anything of yours," said David, "I want my own pig."

Nancy was silent, except for some little convulsive sobs. Presently she
made a last effort.

"Please, Davie," she said humbly, "won't you forgive me? I _am_ so
sorry."

David turned round. His face was very red, but he spoke slowly and
quietly:

"No," he said, "I won't forgive you. I never mean to. You promised to
take care of Antony, and you haven't. You're _very_ wicked."

Then he went away and left Nancy in floods of tears by the empty sty.

Everyone sympathised with David at first, and was sorry for his loss,
though perhaps no one quite understood what a great one it was to him;
but there was another feeling mingled with his grief for Antony, which
was even stronger, and that was anger towards his sister. David had a
deep sense of justice, and it seemed hard to him that he alone should
suffer for Nancy's wrong-doing. When he saw her after a time as merry
and gay as though Antony had never existed, he felt as hard as stone,
and would neither speak to her nor join in any game in which she took
part. She ought to be punished, he thought, and made to feel as unhappy
as he did. Poor little Davie! he was very miserable in those days, and
sadly changed, for his once loving heart was torn with grief and anger,
which are both hard to bear, but anger far the worse of the two. So he
moped about mournfully alone, and no one took much notice of him, for
people got tired of trying to comfort him and persuade him to forgive.
Even his mother was unsuccessful:

"You ought to forgive and forget, Davie," said she.

"I _can't_ forget Antony," replied David, "and I don't want to forgive
Nancy. I'd rather _not_."

"But she would be the first to forget any wrong thing you did to her,"
continued Mrs Hawthorn.