“It is exactly what I should expect of her,” was the sharp reply. “Cecilia I like the least of any of my niece’s children. She is naturally an inhuman sort of child, without the slightest trace of affection for any one; and then she has always been allowed to have her own way, until she is most unmanageable. Elizabeth and your father have spoiled all of their children, but the result is most obvious in Cecilia. She ought to be severely dealt with for a trick of this kind. Reverence, if not simple humanity, should have deterred her. But none of you children seem to have any reverence for anything. I think I shall speak to Cecilia, myself, this morning.”
“Oh, please don’t, Aunt Sarah,” exclaimed Barbara, impulsively. “You know how sensitive Cecilia is, and how hard to handle! I think that if I talk to her first, I can make her sorry for frightening the boys. But she doesn’t li—”
Aunt Sarah took up her candle with as much dignity as it is possible to assume in curling-pins. “I understand that Cecilia doesn’t like me,” she said stiffly, “and I assure you that the feeling is mutual. I shall not speak to her, of course, if you prefer that I shall hold no communication with her. But I shall write your mother a full account of the whole affair as soon as I leave, which will be this morning, if possible. I must say, Barbara, that I never expected that you would condone wrongdoing, even in your own household. I shall telephone for an expressman to take my trunk to the station at ten this morning. If there was ever a home and a family where New Thought is needed, this is the one!”
Aunt Sarah was as good as her word. During the entire breakfast hour, she deigned not so much as a glance at her guilty great-niece. Upon her departure, she ostentatiously kissed every other member of the family, including Jack, who presented a cheek gingerly for the salute. Barbara accompanied her to the station, but she was not to be mollified, and the farewell was enlivened only by Edward’s boys, whose parting act was to open a coop of chickens in the Auburn baggage-room, and give the fowls their freedom. Barbara, as well as the station-master, heaved a sigh of relief as her relatives boarded the train.
Upon her return to the disorderly home, the big sister sought out the little one. It was hard to find fault with the punishment that had been meted out to Edward’s boys, but it must be done. Barbara took the small girl on her lap. “Why did you do it, Chicken?” she asked.
Gassy’s lips set in a decided line. “Because they deserved it,” she said. “I ain’t one bit sorry, Barbara Grafton, not one single bit! Those are the meanest, sneakiest boys that ever lived! They didn’t dare torment Jack,—he was too big; they were afraid of me because I could beat them running. So they took it all out on David and the Kid, ’specially David. He ain’t strong enough to fight, and, besides, he’s too gentle; and they knew it, and took advantage of it all the time. First they used to hit him, and tease him, but he’d never answer back,—just look at them kind of sad and slow, like Mary, Queen of Scots, on the scaffold. And that spoiled all their fun; the scratch-back kind are the only ones who are ever really teased, you know.”
Barbara put this bit of philosophy away for future reference.
“But after awhile,” the child continued, “they found out that it hurt him lots worse to meddle with his books, so they did that, just to worry him. You know how he loves that King Arthur book of his! Yesterday they cut out every single picture in it with their jackknives,—just hacked it all up! You can’t hurt those boys,—they’re too tough; but they’re awful ’fraid-cats, and you can scare ’em easy. So I just put on a sheet, and went in and warned ’em that they dasn’t touch David’s books again. He cries every time they do, and that makes his hay fever worse.”
“But, dear,” Barbara said quietly, “it wasn’t nice to do it. They were in your own house, you know—”