"Oh! don't go in," said Susy. "It's Aunt Church, and she's dreadful."
"An old lady?" cried Kathleen. "I love old ladies."
She pushed past Susy and made her appearance in the parlor.
Now, Mrs. Church was a person of discernment. She strongly objected to gay dress on the person of little Susy Hopkins; but, as she expressed it, she knew the quality. Had she not lived all her earlier days as housekeeper to a widowed nobleman? Could she ever forget the fine folk she helped to prepare for in his house? Now, Kathleen, standing in the tiny room, had a certain look of wealth and distinction about her. Mrs. Church seemed to sniff the fine quality air in a moment; she even managed to rise from her chair and drop a little curtsy.
"If it weren't for the rheumatics," she said, "I wouldn't make so bold as to sit before you, miss."
"But why shouldn't you? I'm sorry you suffer from rheumatism. May I bring a chair and come and sit near you? Are you Mrs. Hopkins—Susy Hopkins's mother?"
"Indeed, my dear, I'm truly thankful to say I am not. And what may your name be, my sweet young lady?"
"Kathleen O'Hara."
"Oh, dear, but it's a mouthful."
"I'm not English," said Kathleen; "I'm Irish. Do you know, in our country we have old ladies something like you. A good many of them have dresses like you; and they live in little cottages, and we bring them up to the castle and give them good food very, very often. There are twelve of them, and they all live in their tiny cottages close to each other. We make a great fuss about them. They love to come to the castle for tea."