Her plain calico gown and coarse apron could not hide her trim figure; and, judging by her small, shapely hands, and slender fingers, one would say that with dainty boots instead of cowhides, her feet would be as shapely as her hands. But Randy had never thought much about beauty or personal adornment until the finding of the wonderful fairy book. She had been dressed like the other children in that little country town, and had never seen a fashion book or a stylishly dressed person in her life. Mrs. Weston had taught her children to think that to be neat and clean was to be well dressed, and certainly Randy and Prue were always dressed in clean gowns and aprons, and stiff-starched sunbonnets. Yes, Randy was more than pretty. Would she one day know it?
Long and patient calling brought no answering shout from little Prue, so Randy snatched her sunbonnet from its peg on the wall, and started in search of her. She looked in every place, both possible and impossible, and she laughed as she thought of the funny scrapes the little sister had gotten into. She thought of the day on which their aunt, Miss Prudence Weston, had come to visit them, bringing three bags and as many bundles, although she was to stay but a week.
She had always lived in a little town in one of the Western states, and as that week’s stay was her first visit to her brother’s home, she was really a stranger to Randy and Prue. The children had known only that little Prue was her namesake, and that she was a person well-nigh perfect.
“Your Aunt Prudence never did that,” was a remark so frequently addressed to little Prue that that lively, mischievous little being conceived a great dislike for so perfect a person; and, although she dared not say so to either father or mother, she confessed it freely to Randy when at night they lay in their little bed in the chamber under the eaves.
“I think it would be just horrid to live in this house if Aunt Prudence lived here too, don’t you, Randy?” said little Prue in a loud whisper. “You’re good, Randy, and you know I love you, but you can be naughty and Aunt Prudence can’t, that’s the difference.”
“Oh, hush!” Randy had said. “I most think it’s naughty not to like her. We don’t know but may be she’s real nice if we knew her.”
“Don’t want to,” whispered Prue, “don’t want to, ever. If she staid here I’d—I mean I’d—” but the tired little sister had gone fast asleep and left Randy to wonder just what she would have done.
Immediately upon her arrival Miss Prudence had removed her wraps, and had at once taken out her knitting from a voluminous pocket, saying to the two staring children, as she peered at them over her glasses, “It’s not right to waste time,” and as soon as they had made their escape to the kitchen, naughty little Prue had said, “Randy Weston! If keeping busy would make me look like that, I’d just do nothing forever and ever.”
Funny little Prue! Aunt Prudence’s sharp eyes behind her spectacles, her “false front,” and tall, angular figure, had strengthened the child’s preconceived dislike. Then that day before their aunt had bidden adieu to the Weston farm, Randy had caught Prue perched upon a chair, which made her just high enough to see herself in the glass. On her head was Miss Prudence’s best cap, on her saucy little nose the big, old-fashioned spectacles, over which she peered at herself, saying, in imitation of her aunt, “I never waste time, no, not a single minute.”
Randy had escaped to the barn where, on the hay, she had laughed until she was tired; all the time feeling guilty, for she knew that, funny as the sight had been, Prue had been very naughty. Prue was a little captive in the house that afternoon, a great trial for her, and at night her father had talked with her and told her that she must always be kind to every one, especially to old people, and Prue had promised, at the same time saying that, “if Aunt Prudence was always good, it was easier for grown-up people to be good.”