Blue Bonnet went to spend the intervening twenty minutes before dinner in the hammock on the front piazza. Uncle Giff’s easy rule had hardly prepared the girl for the orderly, busy routine that life stood for in this staid old house. Mrs. Clyde, coming out presently, saw the shadow on Blue Bonnet’s face, and, bit by bit, drew the story of the morning from her.
“I didn’t mean not to practise,” the girl said; “but I was so tired writing those notes; some of them got blotted and had to be done over; and I was wild to get out—and it wasn’t fair of—”
“Careful, Elizabeth!”
Blue Bonnet colored. They forgot that she was fifteen and—and—mistress of the Blue Bonnet Ranch.
“Elizabeth,” her grandmother said, gravely, “suppose you try to look at things from your aunt’s point of view. Remember, dear, she is trying to do her best by a very heedless, motherless girl.”
All resentment vanished from Blue Bonnet’s blue eyes. Just before dinner she appeared before Miss Clyde, Latin grammar in hand.
“I think I know that verb now, Aunt Lucinda,” she said. “Will there be time to hear me say it?”
Miss Clyde took the book.
Blue Bonnet did know that verb; knew it in all its various moods and tenses with the thoroughness her aunt delighted in. “That was very well done, Elizabeth,” she said.
And Blue Bonnet found the quiet words of commendation well worth while.