She considered this.
"I was always smart for my years."
"And I wasn't. I think I must have developed slowly, Amelia. When you were cleaning flues I was nursing dolls. Perhaps it was my parents' fault. I was the only child."
"And I'm the eldest of fourteen."
"Dear me!" I said. "And are they all expert flue cleaners?"
"Eight of 'em is in heaven."
She sounded as sure of this point as the exasperating little cottage girl.
"You'd better get on with your work; I'm interrupting you," I said, as I walked to the door.
About every third day I make this remark to Amelia with the faint hope of impressing upon her that I am the mistress of the establishment. Then I carefully close the kitchen door behind me, barricade myself in the dining- or drawing-room, and sit down and think about her. I am sure Amelia has not the slightest idea of how her figure looms in my mental horizon. I don't want to think about her. Dimbie or mother or Nanty are much pleasanter subjects, but I can't help it; she is the sort of person you must think about.
Nanty found her for me.