“I don’t like Miss Lizzie,” said she.
Aunt Cordelia was incredulous, scandalised. “You mustn’t talk so.”
“Little girls must not know what they like,” said Aunt Louise. Aunt Louise was apt to be sententious. She was young.
“Except in puddings,” said Uncle Charlie, passing Emmy Lou’s saucer. There was pudding for dinner.
But wrong or not, Emmy Lou knew that it was so, she knew she did not like Miss Lizzie.
One morning Miss Lizzie forgot the package of trial-paper. The supply was out.
She called Rosalie. Then she called Emmy Lou. She told them where her house was, then told them to go there, ring the bell, ask for the paper, and return.
It seemed strange and unreal to be walking the streets in school-time. Rosalie skipped. So Emmy Lou skipped, too. Miss Lizzie lived seven squares away. It was a cottage—a little cottage. On one side its high board fence ran along an alley, but on the other side was a big yard with trees and bushes. The cottage was almost hidden, and it seemed strange and far off.
Rosalie rang the bell. Then Emmy Lou rang the bell.
Nobody came.