“Why,” said Mrs. Corliss, smoothing the nut-brown curls back from the child’s flushed face, “I should think you would be very pleased. They were your neighbors when you were down in Florida, were they not?”
“Yes,” replied the little girl, frowning, “but I don’t like them one bit. Bess and Gertie––that’s the two eldest ones, make me think of those stiff pictures in the gay trailing dresses in the magazines. Eve is nice, but she’s a Tom-boy.”
“A wh––at!” cried Mrs. Corliss.
“She’s a Tom-boy, mamma always said; she romps, and has no manners.”
“They will be your neighbors when you go South again––so I suppose your brother thought of that when he invited them.”
“He never dreamed of it,” cried Birdie; “it was Miss Pluma’s doings.”
“Hush, child, don’t talk so loud,” entreated the old housekeeper; “she might hear you.”
“I don’t care,” cried Birdie. “I don’t like her anyhow, and she knows it. When Rex is around she is as sweet as honey to me, and calls me ‘pretty little dear,’ but when Rex isn’t around she scarcely notices me, and I hate her––yes, I do.”
Birdie clinched her little hands together venomously, crying out the words in a shrill scream.
“Birdie,” cried Mrs. Corliss, “you must not say such hard, cruel things. I have heard you say, over and over again, you liked Mr. Hurlhurst, and you must remember Pluma is his daughter, and she is to be your brother’s wife. You must learn to speak and think kindly of her.”