"Stop, Ida! You mustn't talk so; it's wicked," said Mrs. Kent, holding the child's hands. "You know mamma didn't mean to pull; but I shall have to punish you with a rod, if you strike me, or talk so; it is very wicked."
"I won't have my hair done any more!" screamed the naughty girl, kicking with all her might.
"Ida!" called out her father from the next room. "Stop that! Do you know, child, whom you are talking to?"
Berty came in at this minute, and Mrs. Kent took advantage of this opportunity while her attention was engaged to finish the curls.
In a few moments she had forgotten all about her trouble. She came up to kiss papa, her mouth looking as sweet as a ripe cherry, and then went dancing about the room as happy as happy could be.
When her brother had led her to the parlor, Mrs. Kent said with a sigh, "That is the way she acts more than half the time while I am curling her hair. I have tried whipping, and coaxing, and everything I can think of. Her passion grows worse every day."
"I have always hoped she would outgrow it," answered Mr. Kent; "but I see something must be done."
"If you'll tell me what, I'll thank you," murmured the mother in a discouraged tone.
The next week a lady called to see Aunt Mary. Ida was playing quietly with some blocks in the corner of the room, when the visitor caught a glimpse of her.
"Oh, what a darling little girl!" she exclaimed. "Come and see me, my dear."