And he proceeded to do so, while the small visitor followed his movements with her laughing eyes.
Then she turned, still smiling, to the four women who stood watching her with various expressions of surprise, consternation, admiration, and dismay.
The mite gave a quick, comprehensive look at each one, and then, intuitively judging by the superior cap-ruffles rather than by any appearance of friendly welcome, she pointed a tiny forefinger at the two Flint ladies in turn, and said:
“I think you’re my aunts, and I hope you’re glad to see me.”
Then Miss Priscilla found her voice.
“Your aunts!” she almost screamed. “Who are you, child, and what are you doing here?”
“I’m Ladybird,” answered the mite—“Ladybird Lovell. My father is dead, and you’re my aunts, you know, so I’ve come to live with you. Mr. Bond says my mother used to be your sister,” she went on in an explanatory tone; “but she’s dead too: she died long ago, so I’m all alone, except Cloppy.”
In the hollow of her little bent arm was what seemed to be a gray muff with a blue bow on it, but as she shook it out and held it up it proved to be a dog.
“This is Cloppy,” she said; “he’s my dog, and he’s such a dear, though he’s a lot of trouble. Do you like dogs?”
Now Miss Priscilla Flint did not like dogs, but that was a matter of small importance compared with the dire calamity which threatened her quiet household. Her very cap-bows shook with the vehement decision of her tone as she answered: