Now, not one iota of this domestic scene was lost upon Nannie. From the day she had listened to that story told by Constance Chance to her young friend (Mrs. Earnest's oldest child) she had been looking about her sharply. The first direction of eyes newly opened is outward. We see our neighbors—see that instead of performing their part like men they are skulking through life—men as churls, snarling, or it may be stalking, automaton fashion; men as sticks, walking, and we hasten to correct their errors. Our own correction comes afterward, if at all, for as the poet has told us, it were easier to tell twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to do it.
Nannie fastened her eyes upon Mr. Earnest, but as he was now absorbed in his paper he lost the benefit of her fierce glances.
“Why don't you tell?” urged Mamie, who did not relish this interruption to her story.
“Well, once there lived a horrid pig.”
“Why, that's not it,” said the child pettishly. “It's a kitty.”
“No, it's a pig,” reiterated Nannie with emphasis. “A horrid, selfish pig!”
“I don't like that,” pouted Mamie. “You begin about a kitty, and just as I'm getting interested in her you go off on a pig.”
“Well, then, once there was a big, horrid cat.”
“You said a dear little kitty,” cried Mamie.
“He was a dear little kitty once, I suppose, but he grew up to be a big selfish, glowering, tortoise-shell tomcat.”