Miss Dorinda Flint was slow. She carefully read the letter through three times before she handed it back to her sister, and then she said:
“It does seem, Priscilla, as if Ladybird could not be Lavinia’s child. But that does not matter. In any event she is our child.”
“Yes,” said Miss Priscilla, in a tone which seemed to Ladybird almost solemn.
“Well, then,” said Ladybird, quivering with excitement, “what are you going to do about it? Because I’ve written to this girl, whoever she is, to come here.”
“You have!” said Miss Priscilla; and Miss Dorinda said: “Well, perhaps it’s just as well. Now we can straighten this thing out at once and forever. And it always has bothered me why Ladybird should have black eyes and hair.”
That afternoon, down under her own apple-tree, Ladybird told the whole story to Chester Humphreys.
“I don’t know, child,” he said, “but it seems to me this Lavinia must be the Flint heiress and not you; but don’t mind that, for you belong to Stella and me, and always will so long as we three shall live.”
“That’s all right,” said Ladybird, “and that’s satisfactory as far as you and Stella are concerned: but I just guess I don’t want some other girl taking my place with my aunts.”
“Of course you don’t,” said young Humphreys; “but still, if she is the rightful niece, and you’re not, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll kill her!” said Ladybird, passionately. “I’ll hang her! I’ll drown her!”