"Slightly, perhaps; but you are more like your mother," was the decided reply.
"Oh, I am glad to hear you say that!" Polly cried delightedly. "I would rather not be like Aunt Janie at all; though everyone says she is very handsome," she added meditatively.
"Polly does not much care for Aunt Janie," Roger explained; "but she's very nice in her way. And Uncle John's very nice, too, but we don't see much of him. Oh, here's Louisa with tea—"
"Which I am sure Cousin Becky must be greatly in need of," Mrs. Trent interposed, not sorry of this opportunity of changing the conversation, "so hush your chatter, children, for a while, and let her take her meal in peace."
"I love listening to their chatter," Cousin Becky said. She did full justice to the chop which had been cooked for her and enjoyed her tea; and afterwards they all sat round the fire, and the children listened whilst their elders conversed about people and places they only knew by name. Then by-and-by Cousin Becky spoke of her brother's death, and her own forlorn condition.
"I cannot tell you how glad I was to receive your letter, my dear," she said to Mrs. Trent. "I considered it was especially kind of you to invite me to visit you as you had never seen me in your life."
"Father wanted you to come, and so did Polly and I," Roger informed her frankly, "but mother was afraid—" He paused in sudden confusion.
"Afraid you might not be satisfied with our mode of living, Becky," Mr. Trent said with a smile, whilst his wife shook her head at him reproachfully.
"The idea!" cried Cousin Becky with a laugh.
"I told her you had had to rough it in your day," Mr. Trent proceeded, "and that you were not a fussy old maid. You see we're living in a small way, and we've had reverses of fortune, as no doubt you have heard, but I don't think we're a discontented family, and we make the best of things—eh, my dear?" he questioned, turning to his wife.