"You're quoting mother," Frances replied, hanging out of the window in a dangerous position; "but, of course, it's true. If I only had time I'd write a fascinating romance about her."
"I'll read every page of it and buy a hundred copies," her brother promised gallantly; but, as he knew that there was nothing Frances hated more than writing, he felt pretty safe. "Of course," he pursued, "Aunt Anne thinks mother spoils us. I don't quite think that—it's just that she's so nice and sympathetic with us when we're naughty, and Aunt Anne doesn't understand that. But still, to please Barbe, and as we've promised, we must try to be respectable and good this time. Remember, twins!"
The twins were not noted for long memories, but their intentions were good, and the first day of Aunt Anne's visit passed very well, the children remembering to rub their feet on the mat, shut the door softly, and not fidget at meals. But the exertion seemed too much for them, and the second day began rather boisterously, and did not improve as it went on. After lunch, when the twins came into the drawing-room, Lucy drew a footstool near her aunt, and sat down meekly upon it, thinking that the sooner Aunt Anne began to talk the sooner it would be over.
Aunt Anne was feeling almost as much embarrassed by the presence of so many children as they were by that of their aunt, but her sense of duty was strong, and she began to make conversation with the one nearest her—who happened to be Lucy.
"What are you doing in lessons now, Lucy?"
Lucy looked solemn.
"Chiefly history," she said.
Frances laughed.
"It's only stories," she exclaimed, "that Barbara tells her and Dick."
"It's history," repeated Lucy indignantly; "isn't it, Dick? It's all about England."