“It’s this,” said Helen.
She seated herself on the window-ledge, and Polly stood, tall and defiant, at her back. Firefly dropped on her knees in front, and the others lolled about anyhow.
“It’s this,” she said. “Father would like to carry on our education as much in mother’s way as possible. And he says that he is willing, for a time at least, to do without having a resident elderly governess to live with us.”
“Oh, good gracious!” exclaimed Polly, “was there ever such an idea thought of?”
“She’d have spectacles,” said Dolly.
“And a hooked nose,” remarked Katie.
“And she’d be sure to squint, and have false teeth, and I’d hate her,” snapped Firefly, putting on her most vindictive face.
“Well, it’s what’s generally done,” said Helen, in her grave, sad, steady, young voice. “You remember the Brewsters when they—they had their great sorrow—how an elderly governess came, and Aunt Maria Cameron has written to father about two already. She speaks of them as treasures; father showed me the letters. He says he supposes it is quite the usual thing, and he asked me what I’d like. Poor father, you see he must be out all day with the sick folks.”
“Of course,” murmured Polly. “Well, what did you answer him about the old horrors, Nell?”
“One seemed rather nice,” said Helen. “She was about forty-five, and had thin grayish hair. Aunt Maria sent her photograph, and said that she was a treasure, and that father ought not to lose an hour in securing her. Her name was Miss Jenkins.”