She then took the book from me, and actually opened at the first chapter. Now, my dear children, you remember, don't you, what this first chapter of Matthew's Gospel is? It is made up almost entirely of the hardest kind of Scripture names—many of which I should not like to be called upon to read aloud, even now. I felt my heart sink at once, and already mourned my book as lost. But I went to work quite calmly—I conquered four or five of the first names, then I began to stammer—then paused to spell them out in my mind—then stopped altogether.
My aunt said "a-hem!" and looked at me over her spectacles, with a queer, quizzical, "I've caught you!" sort of a look.
I dropped my head in shame and perplexity. My aunt sat still and stern, and awfully silent. At length, I looked up through the long hair that had fallen forward over my face, and said, as coaxingly as I knew how—
"You know, dear aunt, these are the names of great kings and patriarchs—and it's not just proper to read them over fast—is it?"
"Ah, you naughty girl," she replied—"that is a foolish get-off—it won't do. You cannot always expect to choose where and what you are to read. A good reader will be at home anywhere. It is plain you do not deserve the book."
I was wretchedly disappointed and mortified; but I did not cry this time. I was too indignant for that. I did not plead for the lost book. I said nothing at all, but went out calmly enough to the gate, with the rest, to see our visitors off.
This evening my aunt did not invite me to ride in the chaise, but took my little brother Albert instead. I was sorry for this—not that I would have gone, but I should have liked to have drawn myself up to my full height, and to have said—"No, I thank you, Mrs. W——." She kissed me, as usual, but I did not kiss her back—and I thought she felt it. I fear that I did not kiss my uncle very affectionately, though I knew he was not to blame.
I lounged about the gate for awhile, and made believe I felt very much at my ease—then I went out into the garden and sat down behind some lilac trees, and buried my face in my apron, and went off into a good hearty cry. I also relieved my hot, angry heart, by talking to myself, something in this petulant, passionate way:—"Oh dear, it's too, too bad! such fun as I have given up to get ready for this reading—so much good time wasted! It wasn't fair—it was right down mean in her to set me at those long, hard, crooked names, that never ought to be read—that never ought to have been made at all! She's mighty proud of knowing so much Scripture—just as if a minister's wife could help it! I don't love her—I'm glad she's gone—I don't want to ride in her old chaise!"
In the midst of this fit of passion and ill-humor, my pretty white kitten came to me and rubbed against me coaxingly, purring very softly. But I let her purr away, and took no notice of her. Fido came bounding along, and, crouching down beside me, began rooting under my arm to get at my face, and licked my hand and whined, till, I am ashamed to say, I got out of patience, and gave him a smart slap on the jaws. He sprang up indignantly, and went and laid himself down under a currant bush, to pout. Then I hid my face in my apron again, and went on with my crying.
