Near her sat a young boy who looked a little older than Adèle. He was mischievously occupied in knotting the skein of thread which his grandmother was using.
Adèle resented what she knew to be a slight cast upon her dead mother's memory, but she did not speak. Her aunt had always been hostile to her, she knew not why.
Old Mrs. Soher raised her hoary head and remarked: "In my time, young girls like Adèle used to learn to read and write,—and work."
Adèle felt very uncomfortable. She wished her uncle would make haste and write his reply; but he sat at his desk, passing his fingers through his hair; a method with which he was familiar when puzzled. Then he rose and cast a significant glance at his wife who followed him out of the room.
The old woman espied her prankish grandson. She immediately broke out into a violent fit of scolding: too animated to be serious. "Ah! but what next, you wicked little rascal. Knotting my thread; but I'm sure. I have a mind to slap your face. Just look at what you have done. Why did you do it?"
Tommy—the little boy—giggled. "I was tired of sitting here doing nothing," he answered impudently; "why don't you tell me a story."
"Well, now, be a good boy; do you know where the bad boys will go?"
"With the devil."
"Quite right; now, you will be good."
"Tell me a tale; you know, something about the old witches," said Tommy. "How do they make people ill?" he questioned pulling impatiently at his grandmother's shawl.