“Yes,” said Lavinia—“my father’s mother.”
“My father’s mother, too,” said Ladybird. “But I don’t care a cent about her; I’d rather have my aunties, who are no relation to me, than all the mothers my father ever had.”
“Ah, but you don’t know Grandma Lovell!” said Lavinia.
“No, I don’t,” said Ladybird, “and I don’t want to.”
“But she’s such a dear!” said Lavinia, with almost the first spark of enthusiasm she had shown since coming to America.
“Why is she?” said Ladybird. “What does she do?”
“Oh, she has such a jolly place in London, and we go out driving, and shopping, and even calling. I sit in the carriage while she goes in. Oh, we had beautiful times, and it’s very different from this dull, stupid, farmy old place!”
“Yes, it is different,” said Ladybird, seriously, “I know. I know all about shopping, and calling, and all those things. I did it in India, but I didn’t like it one bit; and I think it’s a thousand times nicer to be at Primrose Hall, with orchards and brooks and trees and birds and sunshine, and my aunts.”
“Oh, do you?” said Lavinia. “Well, I’d rather have one year of London life than a thousand years of Primrose Hall.”
“Well, then, you’re all right,” said Ladybird, “for probably you can get one year of London life again before you die.”