“Are not nice,” went on Miss Dorinda, “and are not even spoken of by nice people. If you love Stella, the most dreadful thing you could do would be to think of her in connection with such a place as you spoke of.”
“Is that so, Aunt Priscilla?” said Ladybird, who, though she loved Aunt Dorinda, always referred her opinions to Miss Flint for sanction.
“Yes,” said Aunt Priscilla, “of course it’s true—more than true; and you did very wrong, Lavinia, to listen to Martha’s tales.”
“Well, but, aunty, then if I can’t help Stella that way, how can I help her?”
“You cannot help her at all,” said Miss Priscilla, very sternly. “Am I to be mistress in my own house, or am I not? Cease talking, Lavinia, and go at once to your room.”
“And I can’t help Stella in any way?” said Ladybird, slowly.
“You cannot. Go!” and Miss Priscilla pointed to the door.
Ladybird gathered up her dog, which had been lying, a shapeless mass, at her feet, and without a word walked from the room.
“She’s gone up-stairs to cry, Priscilla,” said Miss Dorinda; “she always does that when she feels very bad about anything.”
“I can’t help it,” snapped Priscilla Flint; “she’s a spoiled child. We over-indulge her in her whims; and in this case she ought to be made to feel ashamed of herself.”