But the unwise if earnest woman had inaugurated a work the magnitude of which was doomed to make even her valiant spirit quake. She returned to the south room to find all its young occupants deep in the discussion of Melville’s reformation; and each with a different and distinct plan for its accomplishment.
Grandmother had gone to sit with her invalid, and Uncle Fritz was resting on the sofa. None of the earnest talkers heeded her entrance, or were conscious of it; but when she had quietly listened to the varying projects, and the unmistakable quality of the family “substance” with which each was advocated, her courage failed.
“I’ll fight him out on his own line!” declared the tomboy Octave; “I’ll teach him that he has got to be a man and not a baby!”
“No,” said Paula, with scorn; “Nothing can be done by being unladylike. I am going to treat him as if we were grown-up folks. A gentleman should be ashamed to cry like a child. I’ll teach him German.”
“I’ll—I don’t know what I can do,” said Christina; “but I’ll do something! He shall not worry my sweet, new grandmother!”
“Oh, there must be unity, my dears,” said Aunt Ruth, joining in the talk.
“And ‘Fritzy Nunky,’ as you call him, hasn’t said his word yet,” added Content. “Suppose we try and find out what he would suggest.”
“Going to bed!” retorted the guardian of many Pickels.
“Oh, but Nunky! How would you, if you were going to be here, how would you reform the horrid fellow?” demanded Octave, imperiously.
“I? Well, I should just try loving him.” And with that wisest project of all, the conclave broke up.