“Oh, Kathleen is, as usual, very busy and cheery; she has three new boarders—hungry and quarrelsome.”
“And he?”
“Just as usual too, dear. You know he never can be better.”
“But he may grow worse!”
“Oh, don’t speak of such a thing! Think of Kathleen.”
“Yes; and I think Kathleen is a saint—so brave and unselfish. Now, where shall we put the old Palairet mirrors?”
“You had better consult your Aunt Bella.”
“My dear, good Susan!” (This was the style in which she addressed her relative.) “Don’t you know your own sister by this time? She has been here nearly seven months, and you are not half settled yet—only bedrooms and dining-room—and I have undertaken to help you finish off in three days.”
“Yes, but that’s nonsense, though I must say you’ve worked miracles this morning—curtains, covers, carpet; but there was no question of where they had to go. As to pictures, mirrors, and cabinets, it will take your aunt a twelvemonth to decide how to place them.”
“I shall decide, and place them to-day,” rejoined the girl, with calm decision; “if I ask Aunt Bella, they will be tried on every wall, till our backs are broken, and then taken down after all. The round glass between the windows,”—looking about and speaking with authority—“the other over the mantelpiece, the Chinese cabinet in that niche—they are just made for one another—the Charles the First black bureau from the schoolroom just here, and the screen from her bedroom by the door.”