The girl’s name was Constantia Richmond; but she was too slight and bonny for such a long name, and everybody called her Conn.
She shook back her fair, soft curls, as golden as a baby’s still, though Conn was fourteen, and, putting a little shawl over her shoulders, peeped out of the open window—as pretty a little slip of a girl as you would care to see—and looked down on the face, half-boyish, half-manly, which was upturned to her. If Jack had been her brother, perhaps she would have scolded at him; for Conn loved her morning nap, and the general din had discomposed her, no doubt. But Jack was only her cousin, and her second cousin, at that,—and it’s curious what a difference that does make. Your brother’s your brother all the days of his life; but your cousin is another affair, and far less certain. So Conn said, quite gently,—
“What is it? Can I do any thing? But I’m sure I don’t want to help you make any more noise. This has been—oh, really dreadful!”
She spoke with a droll little fine-lady air, and put her pretty little fingers to her pretty little ears. And Jack laughed; he had not begun to think of her yet as a charming girl,—she was just Cousin Conn.
“What!” he cried. “Not like noise on Fourth of July? Why, you don’t deserve to have a country.”
“I’m sure I wish I hadn’t,” said Conn, with a little dash of spirit.
“Are you dressed?” cried the boy, nearly seventeen years old, but all a boy still.
“No.”
“Well, just hurry, then, and come down. I’m off in half an hour with the Brighton Blues, and I want you to see first how this pistol works.”
High honor this, that she, a girl, should be invited to inspect the wonderful pistol!