“She has never had me to lose, for I am here only on a visit; it was so understood from the first, and at the end of the three months I was to decide whether I would accept the offer of a home here, an offer which I am made to understand is of great advantage. I am very sure that Uncle Brown will not omit every morning to pray openly for the ‘young pensioner upon our bounty.’ I shall never be allowed to forget, even on Sundays, that I am a pensioner, and it will be a great strain upon me to beam gratitude when my heart is pining for you. As for Fidgetty Lou, she has always declared that when her time was out she meant to leave. She has never said anything else, and now that she has fallen in love with my big sister she is determined to follow her fortunes. You may be four years older than I, Tina, but you cannot persuade me that my lot here will be a happier one than with you and John. It is all clear enough in my mind and I shall tell Aunt Miranda to-night. It will not break her heart to part with me, and so far as Fidgetty Lou is concerned she will get another orphan to train up the way she should go, and will rather enjoy the process.”
“Fidgetty Lou could get good wages somewhere,” said Christine thoughtfully.
“She would rather see the world at present. Here she comes.”
Fidgetty Lou entered, arrayed in a spotless blue frock and gingham apron. Her red hair was drawn tightly back into a hard knot; her freckled face beamed with good-nature. A little nervous twitch of the head alone remained as the result of an attack of St. Vitus’s dance which had obtained for her, when a child, the nickname of Fidgetty Lou. Behind her came Aunt Miranda, as scrupulously neat. Her black alpaca apron covered a black stuff gown; her hair, plastered down each side her face and tucked behind her ears, showed not a stray lock. She looked the table over comprehensively, then replaced some of the knives and forks, remarking that they were not laid quite straight. “Set that dish a little more to the left, Louisa,” she ordered. “Bring in the rest of the dinner, and then call Mr. Brown.” She looked at her nieces critically. “I wish you would try to smooth your hair a little, Alison,” she said. “Your uncle dislikes to see a frowsy head.”
Alison cast an amused glance at her sister as she hastily tucked under a few stray, curling tendrils which had escaped from the confines of her neat braids. “A frowsy head!” she whispered as she passed Christine. “I must go and wet it into sleekness or I shall be disgraced.” The thought that she would soon escape from the lectures of an over-particular uncle and the reproving words of a particular aunt made her sing a little song of joy as she ran down-stairs again.
Her uncle was just coming in. “A little too noisy, Alison,” he said. “Remember that ‘the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.’”
“Yes,” she returned brightly, “but the wise man also says, ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’ You read that this morning, I remember.” Alison was usually too ready to meet her uncle’s quotations with counter-texts exactly to meet his approval, for he preferred to adapt the Scriptures to point his own opinions. But on this occasion he said nothing and the two passed on to the dinner-table.
Nevertheless this small passage at arms had its effect in producing less opposition when the moment came for Alison to declare her decision. This she did that same evening, after supper, when all were gathered in the living-room. Save for the ticking of the big clock all was very still. Uncle Brown was poring over his weekly paper, while Aunt Miranda neatly patched a hole in some table linen, and Christine’s fingers were flying along the hem of a sheet.
“Have you nothing to do, Alison?” asked her aunt disapprovingly. “Where is your knitting?”
“I have it here,” responded Alison, producing her knitting-bag and drawing forth a half finished sock. “I want to tell you,” she said, speaking hurriedly, “that I have decided to go with John and Christine.”