“If you want me to be truthful, I do mind very much,” said Helen. “Oh, you are putting him into Polly’s bed. Well, I suppose he must stay there for the present.”
Mrs. Cameron was never considered an unamiable person; she was well spoken of by her friends and relations, for she was rich, and gave away a great deal of money to various charities and benevolent institutions. But if ever any one expected her to depart in the smallest particular from her own way they were vastly mistaken. Whatever her goal, whatever her faintest desire, she rode roughshod over all prejudices until she obtained it. Therefore it was that, notwithstanding poor Helen’s protest, Scorpion curled down comfortably between Polly’s sheets, and Mrs. Cameron, well pleased at having won her point, went down to supper.
Alas, and alas! the supper provided for the good lady was severe in its simplicity. Alice, blushing and uncomfortable, called Helen out of the room, and then informed her that neither Polly nor Maggie could be found, and that there was literally nothing, or next to nothing, in the larder.
“But that can’t be the case,” said Helen, “for there was a large piece of cold roast beef brought up for my tea, and a great plate of hot cakes, and an uncut plum cake. Surely, Alice, you must be mistaken.”
“No, Miss, there’s nothing downstairs. Not a joint, nor a cake, nor nothing. If it wasn’t that I found some new-laid eggs in the hen-house, and cut some slices from the uncooked ham, I couldn’t have had nothing at all for supper—and—and——”
“Tut, tut!” suddenly exclaimed a voice in the dining-room. “What’s all this whispering about? It is very rude of little girls to whisper outside doors, and not to attend to their aunts when they come a long way to see them. If you don’t come in at once, Miss Helen, and give me my tea, I shall help myself.”
“Find Polly, then, as quick as you can, Alice,” exclaimed poor, perplexed Helen, “and tell her that Aunt Maria Cameron has come and is going to stay.”
Alice went away, and Helen, returning to the dining-room, poured out tea, and cut bread-and-butter, and saw her aunt demolishing with appetite three new-laid eggs, and two generous slices of fried ham.
“Your meal was plain; but I am satisfied with it,” she said in conclusion. “I am glad you live frugally, Helen; waste is always sinful, and in your case peculiarly so. You don’t mind my telling you, my dear, that I think it is a sad extravagance wearing crape every day, but of course you don’t know any better. You are nothing in the world but an overgrown child. Now that I have come, my dear, I shall put this and many other matters to rights. Tell me, Helen, how long does your father intend to be away?”
“Until Monday, I think, Aunt Maria.”