“In the basement-room. Maimie is teaching them there; but lessons must be nearly over,” I said.
“Mary Browne, do you mean? Playing at lessons, I suppose.”
“O no; she makes them work hard. It is a great relief to me to have them off my hands; and Maimie is so clever at teaching. The boys get on capitally.”
“How old is the child? Fifteen! A chit of a girl! Why, she ought to be at school herself.”
“She does study regularly,” I said. “School for her is out of our power. She is making Jack study too.”
“Humph! Well, it’s a good thing she isn’t a few years older. I’ll take a look at the children in the basement-room, the first thing.”
I yielded, of course. We never opposed Aunt Briscoe. Otherwise I should have preferred first to put things tidy.
However, I needed not to have feared. Maimie never could work or teach in an untidy room.
She was at the table in the basement, with several books strewn over it, and a little boy on either side of her,—Bob reciting something in clear tones, while Teddie’s brown head was pressed lovingly against her flaxen waves of hair. Our entrance made her look round, and she stood up, flushing faintly, and looking her prettiest.
“So that is Mary Browne,” said Aunt Briscoe.