About that evening star.”
“Why, aunty, that’s lovely,” exclaimed Ladybird: “and I do understand it. I know the sunset star that comes out in the sky just as the sun goes down. Yours is more poetry than mine, but mine are funnier. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, child; but as you grow older you’ll see that poetry is more important than fun.”
“Yes; and then I’ll learn to make verses like yours. Can you make poetry too, Aunt Dorinda?”
“No,” said Miss Dorinda, simply; “my talent is for painting.”
“Oh, is it? And do you paint pictures? And will you teach me how? I’ve always wanted to learn to paint, and I’m very industrious. I can play on the piano like a house afire.”
“Sister Lavinia used to play the piano very prettily,” said Miss Dorinda; “doubtless you have inherited her talent.”
“Yes, I think I have. Shall I play for you now?”
“No!” said Miss Priscilla, decidedly; “the piano has never been touched since your mother left us, and it never shall be opened again with my consent.”
“Aunty, did my mamma look like you? It seems funny, doesn’t it? but I’ve never seen a picture of my mamma, and papa never told me anything about her. I didn’t know papa very well, either,—he was always going off on long journeys, and I stayed with nurse. What was my mamma like, aunty?”