"Molly," said Nell, flinging down her pencil in despair of seeing any longer without the lamp, "your soul is full of the vanities of life. 'Be good, sweet child, and let who will be—pretty.'"
"It's so easy for pretty people to talk like that!"
"I'm bowing, Mol, I really am—only it's so dark it's lost on you."
"I've a good mind to start saying 'prunes and prisms' all day long, my mouth's so huge!"
"But it's so Irish, asthore!"
"I hate you," said Molly.
Nell stuck her elbows on the table, and her chin into her hands, and studied in her mind the painting of the old cab horse. It was such a glorious painting—there was such depth—his muscles—the veins in that leg were wonderful—in her mind. She sighed.
"Nell," in the firelight Molly blushed, "I'm going to soften Aunt Kezia's heart!"
"What? Soften her heart, is it? You'll have to soften her head first, my dear."
She began to laugh softly.