"But every one is not so silly as I was," said Marion, who was longing to make a clean breast of it. "Aunt Baby, do you know I used to think, when I was at home, that the reason I did not get on any better was because I was so superior to everybody about me?"
"I had a good guess at it," said Aunt Baby, smiling. "Girls are not such absolute mysteries to their elders as they are fain to believe. I dare say it has been good for you to live more with young people of your own age."
"And don't you think they are nice boys, Aunt Baby?"
"Indeed I do, my dear. A finer or better managed set of lads I never saw together, and your grandfather says the same. And Betsy is a nice lass too, I must allow, though a thought—well, I'll not say just masculine, but boyish."
"You see she has always lived with boys," said Marion. "Cousin Helen says it is the object of her life to make a girl of Betsy. But she isn't coarse, Aunt Baby, not really, nor the boys, either. They are all good, but I think Bram is the best, if there is any best."
"It is very good in you to say so, and he the cause of your misfortune," said Aunt Baby.
"Bram the cause of my misfortune?" said Marion, raising herself up. "Why, Aunt Barbara, what do you mean? Bram had nothing to do with it. Nobody was to blame, only the rains which had loosened the ground."
"Well, there! Don't excite yourself, child. It was Gerty that told me," said Aunt Baby. "She said that it was all caused by Bram's carelessness and giddiness, and—what grieved me most of all—on a Sabbath evening."
"Oh, Gerty! I forgot she had been over," said Marion, sinking back, as if the matter were explained. "I dare say she told you a fine story."
"Tell me yourself how it was, then."