Until the coming of little Hecla, some eighteen months before this date, nothing had disturbed the even tenor of their lives since Miss Storey's girlhood. Everything in the house had gone steadily on, as if by clockwork—like the aged timepiece in the hall, which never was known to lag behind or to run ahead.
Nothing and nobody under that roof had ever been in a hurry, or afflicted with fidgets. Certainly not Miss Storey, or Miss Anne Storey, or the elderly servant who had done most of the work, or the stolid young girl who helped her, or the silent old charwoman who sometimes came for a day's work, or even the dignified Persian cat. All had gone on calmly, smoothly, placidly.
But when their only sister died, leaving one little girl alone and friendless, it became their duty to take her. And they did not hesitate. They determined at once to have the child, though they—especially Miss Storey—felt that it would be a trial.
And it no doubt was a trial. Though they were very fond of the child, she worried them a good deal, without in the least meaning to do so.
Miss Storey was not really old. Many a woman of her age is still active and vigorous, and even young, and Miss Anne was many years the younger of the two. Still, they had lived so long in one particular way, that it was not easy for them to change.
And with the coming of little Hecla, an eager, affectionate, talkative, restless child of seven, accustomed to be made much of and to get her own way more than was perhaps wise, things were a good deal altered. It could not be otherwise.
For years and years the sisters had lived in quiet, and had had everything about them neat and regular and orderly. All at once, into the midst of this placid household came a little fidgety sprite, never for a moment still, never, if she could help it, for a moment silent, always on the go, always wanting to do something fresh, perpetually asking questions, never putting anything away into its right place, unable to write without scattering ink-spots, unable to kiss them without rumpling their nice white frills. It really was something of a trial at first even to Miss Anne, and it was a very great trial to Miss Storey. Not even eighteen months of it had made the elder sister grow used to the new state of things.
Do what they might, they could not shape the child into their own ways. She really was on the whole a good little girl, anxious to do what was right. But she forgot words of reproof almost as soon as they were spoken; and it seemed as if she positively had to dance and skip and prance and fidget and chatter the whole day long without a break.
Perhaps the aunts had done much the same in their childhood, and had forgotten; or, if Miss Anne remembered, she never said so. Perhaps they had been naturally less restless. There is a great difference between different children, just as there is a great difference between different grown-up people.
Hecla never for a moment dreamt what a trial her presence in the house was to her Aunt Millicent. She knew that she was always being told not to fidget, but she supposed that to be only because she had to learn to be proper and quiet.