Hecla did try. She screwed her forehead into all sorts of shapes, huddled herself into a bunch, and asked no questions for nearly two whole minutes. Her chair kept up a gentle creaking.
"You need not fidget, Hecla."
There were no sounds for quite thirty seconds. Then she forgot. Out went one foot and the other curled itself round the leg of her chair. Her elbow sprawled over the table, and down went a reel of cotton. It rolled away, so of course she had to run after it; and when she came back and plumped into her chair—crash followed.
"My dear Hecla!"
"Oh, auntie, it's my work-box! I'm so sorry!"
"Pick it up carefully. Then you must try to be quiet."
Picking up the fallen box and putting its contents straight was easy. But to be quiet—there lay the difficulty. Do what Hecla would, and try as she might, it always seemed as if the one impossible thing for her was to keep still.
"I've done one whole side of my handkerchief, auntie." She jumped up—and bang! again. Down went her chair, backwards.
"Hecla!"
"Oh dear! Things will tumble so, auntie."