“I should say she did!” exclaimed Miss Jane; “to put that screaming, suffering child in the baby-carriage and run all the way to the doctor's when there wasn't a soul on hand to advise her! Two or three more such actions would make the Simpson name sound consid'rable sweeter in this neighborhood.”
“Simpson will always sound like Simpson to me!” vouchsafed the elder sister, “but we've talked enough about em an' to spare. You can go along, Rebecca; but remember that a child is known by the company she keeps.”
“All right, Aunt Miranda; thank you!” cried Rebecca, leaping from the chair on which she had been twisting nervously for five minutes. “And how does this strike you? Would you be in favor of my taking Clara Belle a company-tart?”
“Don't Mrs. Fogg feed the young one, now she's taken her right into the family?”
“Oh, yes,” Rebecca answered, “she has lovely things to eat, and Mrs. Fogg won't even let her drink skim milk; but I always feel that taking a present lets the person know you've been thinking about them and are extra glad to see them. Besides, unless we have company soon, those tarts will have to be eaten by the family, and a new batch made; you remember the one I had when I was rewarding myself last week? That was queer—but nice,” she added hastily.
“Mebbe you could think of something of your own you could give away without taking my tarts!” responded Miranda tersely; the joints of her armor having been pierced by the fatally keen tongue of her niece, who had insinuated that company-tarts lasted a long time in the brick house. This was a fact; indeed, the company-tart was so named, not from any idea that it would ever be eaten by guests, but because it was too good for every-day use.
Rebecca's face crimsoned with shame that she had drifted into an impolite and, what was worse, an apparently ungrateful speech.
“I didn't mean to say anything not nice, Aunt Miranda,” she stammered. “Truly the tart was splendid, but not exactly like new, that's all. And oh! I know what I can take Clara Belle! A few chocolate drops out of the box Mr. Ladd gave me on my birthday.”
“You go down cellar and get that tart, same as I told you,” commanded
Miranda, “and when you fill it don't uncover a new tumbler of jelly;
there's some dried-apple preserves open that'll do. Wear your rubbers
and your thick jacket. After runnin' all the way down there—for your
legs never seem to be rigged for walkin' like other girls'—you'll set
down on some damp stone or other and ketch your death o' cold, an' your
Aunt Jane n' I'll be kep' up nights nursin' you and luggin' your meals
upstairs to you on a waiter.”
Here Miranda leaned her head against the back of her rocking
chair, dropped her knitting and closed her eyes wearily, for when the
immovable body is opposed by the irresistible force there is a certain
amount of jar and disturbance involved in the operation.
Rebecca moved toward the side door, shooting a questioning glance at Aunt Jane as she passed. The look was full of mysterious suggestion and was accompanied by an almost imperceptible gesture. Miss Jane knew that certain articles were kept in the entry closet, and by this time she had become sufficiently expert in telegraphy to know that Rebecca's unspoken query meant: “COULD YOU PERMIT THE HAT WITH THE RED WINGS, IT BEING SATURDAY, FINE SETTLED WEATHER, AND A PLEASURE EXCURSION?”