"I don't care if it does," said Amelia stoutly.
"Well, I don't know," Blanche White put in, nibbling the end of her pen reflectively. "Seems as if everything ought to be sort of sweet and solemn and Christian at a time like that."
"Christian nothing!" Opposition only strengthened Amelia's opinion.
"I'd like to know whose funeral it is anyhow! If you can't have your way about your own funeral it's a funny thing. I never did like Aunt Ellen. She's always telling tales on me and saying that Mamma lets me have too much freedom, and talking about the way girls were brought up when she was young. Mamma makes me be nice to her because she's papa's sister, but when I'm dead I can be honest about her—and anyway if there's a family fuss about it, I'll be out of it. I'm not going to plan any place at all for Aunt Ellen in the carriages."
"Your father'll put her in with the rest of the family."
"No, he won't—not if I fill every single seat and say that it's my last solemn wish that people should ride just that way."
"For charity's sake, girls, tell me what it all means," urged Belinda, seating herself at one of the small desks and eyeing the sheets of paper covered with schoolgirl hieroglyphics.
"We're writing our wills, Miss Carewe," said Amelia with due solemnity.
"Your wills?"
"Yes; I think everybody ought to do it, don't you? I told the girls we all had things we'd like to leave to certain people, and of course we want our funerals arranged to suit us, and there's no telling when anybody may die. It seems to me it's right to be prepared even if we are young."