"Dear Aunt Marcia!"
"No foot in this house!" repeated Mrs. Tree. "Not the point of her toe, if she had a point. She was born splay-footed, and I suppose she'll die so. Not the point of her toe!"
Miss Vesta was silent for a moment. If she were only like Phœbe! She must try her best to do as Phœbe would have wished.
"Aunt Marcia," she said, "you have always been so near and dear—so very near and so infinitely dear and kind, to us,—especially to Nathaniel and me, and to Nathaniel's children,—that I fear you sometimes forget the fact that Maria is precisely the same relation to you that we are."
"Cat's foot, fiddlestick, folderol, fudge!" remarked Mrs. Tree, blandly.
"Dear Aunt Marcia, do not speak so, I beg of you. Only think, Uncle James, Maria's father, was your own brother."
"His wife wasn't my own sister!" said Mrs. Tree, grimly. Then she blazed out suddenly. "Vesta Blyth, you are a good girl, and I am very fond of you; but I know what I am about, and I behave as I intend to behave. My brother James was a good man, though I never could understand the ground he took about the Copleys. He had no more right to them—but that is neither here nor there. His wife was a cat, and her mother before her was a cat, and her daughter after her is a cat. I don't like cats, and I never have had them in this house, and I never will. That's all there is to it. If that woman comes here, I'll set the parrot on her."
"Scat!" said the parrot, waking from a doze and ruffling his feathers. "Quousque tandem, O Catilina? Vesta, Vesta, don't you pester!"
Miss Vesta sighed. "Then—what will you say to Maria, Aunt Marcia?"
"I sha'n't say anything to her!" replied the old lady, snappishly.