“Does one ever know why one's sad?” she asked in a bewitchingly appealing tone..
“Well, I imagine that sometimes one dees,” put in Aunt Nettie, drily.
Missy ignored Aunt Nettie; often it was best to ignore Aunt Nettie—she was mother's old-maid sister, and she “understood” even less than mother did.
Luckily just then, Marguerite, the coloured hired girl, came to clear off the table. Missy regarded her capable but undistinguished figure.
“I wish they had butlers in Cherryvale,” she observed, incautious again.
“Butlers!—for mercy's sake!” ejaculated Aunt Nettie.
“What books have you got out from the library now, Missy?” asked father. It was an abrupt change of topic, but Missy was glad of the chance to turn from Aunt Nettie's derisive smile.
“Why—let me see. 'David Harum' and 'The History of Ancient Greece'-that's all I think. And oh, yes—I got a French dictionary on my way home this afternoon.”
“Oh! A French dictionary!” commented father.
“It isn't books, Horace,” remarked Aunt Nettie, incomprehensibly. “It's that O'Neill girl.”