“Yes, dey kin; an’ dey is gwine ter, ’long as menfolks is so triflin’ an’ owdacious as dey is.”
Jacqueline developed a strange obstinacy about the party. She declared she was dying to go, but she never wavered from her determination not to go without Judith.
“But your sister does not wish to go, Jacqueline,” her mother said to this.
“But I want her to go, mamma. You can’t imagine how I long to go to this party. It is so very, very dull at Barn Elms—and I have my new white frock.”
“Judith has no frock.”
“Oh, yes she has. She has that long black dress, in which she looks so nice, and she is so clever at sewing she could cut it open at the neck and turn up the sleeves at the elbow.”
Mrs. Temple said nothing more. Jacqueline went about, eager-eyed, but silent, and possessed of but one idea—the party. A day or two after this she said bitterly to her mother, when Judith was out of the room:
“Mamma, I know why you are willing to disappoint me about this party. It is because you love your dead child better than your living one.”
Mrs. Temple turned a little pale. The thrust went home, as some of Jacqueline’s thrusts did.
“And if I don’t go, I will cry and cry—I will cry that night so loud in my room that papa will come in, and you know how it vexes him to have me cry; and it will break my heart—I know it will.”