Up-stairs a cheery chatter came from the rooms, and Ellen Robinson experienced a pang of real jealousy of these two young things who had swept in and carried her neglected sister by storm. Somehow it seemed to her that they had taken something that belonged to her, and she began to feel bereft. Julia ought to love her better than these two young strangers; why didn’t she? Why didn’t those two children make such a fuss over her as they did over Julia? It certainly was strange! Perhaps some gleam of perception that it might all be her own fault began to filter to Ellen Robinson’s consciousness as she stood there on the stairs and listened to the pleasant chatter.
“O Cloudy, dear! Is this really Daddy’s picture 85 when he was a little boy? What a funny collar and necktie! But wasn’t he a darling? I love the way his hair curls around his face. I can remember Daddy quite well. Mother used to say he was a wonderful man. I think he must have been a good deal like you. Our old nurse used to say that families went in streaks. I guess you and Daddy were off the same streak, weren’t you? I hope Allison and I will be, too. Say, Cloudy, can’t I have this picture of Daddy to hang in my room in our new house? I love it.”
Ellen Robinson wondered whether they had classified her as another “streak,” and somehow the thought was unpleasant. It was like one of those little rare mirrors that flash us a look now and then in which we “see oursel’s as ithers see us,” and are warned to take account of stock. As she climbed the old stairs, Ellen Robinson took account of herself, as it were, and resolved to show a better side to these children than she had shown heretofore; and so, when she appeared among them, she put aside her grim aspect for a while, and spoke in quite an affable tone:
“Well, you certainly can work!”
The contrast was so great that both the young people blinked at her in wonder, and a smile broke out on Leslie’s lovely face. Somehow it warmed Aunt Ellen’s heart, and she went on:
“But you all must be tired. You better come up to our house for supper to-night. You won’t have any chance to get it here.”
“Oh, we don’t mind picnicking,” said Leslie hastily. Then she caught a glimpse of her aunt’s face, and her 86 natural kindliness came to the front. “But of course that would be lovely if it won’t be too much trouble for you,” she added pleasantly with one of her brilliant smiles, although she could see Allison making violent motions and shaking his head at her from the other room, where he was out of his Aunt Ellen’s sight. Leslie really had a lovely nature, and was always quick to discern it when she had hurt any one. Ellen Robinson looked at her suspiciously, alert for the insult always, but yielded suddenly and unexpectedly to the girl’s loveliness. Was it something in Leslie’s eyes that reminded Ellen of her big brother who used to come home now and then, and tease her, and bring her lovely gifts? She watched Leslie a moment wistfully, and then with a sigh turned away. She wished one of her little girls could look like that.
“Well, I’d better go right home and get supper ready,” she said alertly; and there was a note of almost pleased eagerness in her voice that she was included in this function of packing and moving that seemed somehow to have turned into a delightful game in which weariness and care were forgotten.
“I’ll have supper ready to dish up by seven o’clock,” she admonished her astonished sister as she swept past the bedroom where she was at work putting away blankets and pillows in camphor. “You won’t be ready much before that; but don’t you be a minute later, or the supper will be spoiled.”
By which admonition Julia Cloud became aware that Ellen was going to favor them with some of her famous chicken potpie. She stood still for a whole 87 minute with a light in her eyes and a smile on her face, listening to Ellen’s retreating footsteps down the stairs; then, as the Ford set up its churning clatter, she turned back to her task, and murmured softly, “Poor Ellen!”